


His Last Full Measure

by HeartAndImagination



Category: Fringe
Genre: 19th Century, Action/Adventure, Alternate Timelines, American Civil War, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gender Issues, Historical, Morality, Outdoor Sex, Reincarnation, Romantic Friendship, Science Fiction, Sexual Content, Shower Sex, Soldiers, Temporary Character Death, Temptation, Time Travel, Victorian, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:44:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartAndImagination/pseuds/HeartAndImagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate universe: Inspired by "Peter and the Machine"</p>
<p>After losing Olivia in 2026, Peter has traveled through time, marking the machine part locations. His last stop is 1862 America. His mission accomplished, he is drawn into the Civil War, and meets the most unexpected people along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nowhere Left to Go

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been a bit of a history fanatic, who is especially interested in the American Civil War. So, when I read Josh Jackson's story from the DC comic's "Beyond the Fringe" series, I felt inspired to write a fic based on Peter's adventures in this time period. (Also, I am inspired by the X-Files episode, "The Field Where I Died," one of my favorites.) I started this fic in 2011 (!) but lost the will to complete it. However, missing Fringe and seeing the 150th anniversary Civil War events brought my muse back. There will be some familiar faces, and new scenarios. There are also a few adult-oriented scenes in a few chapters. I have the remaining chapters in draft form. Should be about 10 when finished, maybe more if people are actually reading this.
> 
> This is a dark story. Life was brutal during this time, and Peter is a lost soul. But the light gets in through the cracks somehow...

**Location: A Field**

**Date: Unknown**

Thunder cracked in the night sky as the earth was saturated with a downpour of rain. Suddenly, a glowing mass of blue light tore across a cow field, which startled a few of the sleepy animal inhabitants. It shook the ground as it sent waves toward the wet dirt, a result of the drowning vibrations that it produced. Nails from the nearby fences started to come loose from the posts and slats, but then stopped moving when the massive magnetic force disappeared. A man landed in the middle of the field where the mass had hovered; he fell with a squishy thump. Dazed, he lied still and groaned, as the cold rain continued to fall, splattering mud around him. A curious cow came over to him, lowered her head, and licked him in the face. As he sputtered the water out of his lungs the man's eyes opened and he said one word: "Gene?"

Suddenly, he jumped up and steadied himself on both of his shaky legs, as the spooked cow ran off to join its herd under some of the tall and leafy trees to the far right of the cow pasture. The bewildered man shook his head, and laughed because he hadn't thought of the old cow named Gene, for many years. It was a lab test animal - actually, more of a pet - that belonged to his scientist father. The man's eyes grew wide as he searched his body for the source of a sudden pain. Luckily, he had only been bruised in the fall. No major breaks, gashes or scrapes this time. He nearly died from one prior incident in which his leg had been impaled upon an oak sapling. The ugly scar was still there, hairless and zigzagging in his skin, a reminder to him of how close he had come to death. If it had nicked an artery…

"Figures," he muttered as he walked with steady strides toward a treeline, in order to some shelter from the bone-chilling rain. "Everywhere that I end up, the weather is absolutely miserable to the extreme." As he surveyed the visible landscape in the pale moonlight, he noticed a structure not too far from his current location. His knapsack hitched up; he made his way to shelter. He had an important job to do; one that was literally a matter of life or death in the not-so-distant-future.

The old hay enclosure was not ideal, but it would have to do. As long as he could stay dry, he could push on with his work. There was some eagerness to his movements, but also steadfast care in each action. A compartment in his bag was opened, from which he removed a medium-sized metallic box. It was lined with a gasket. The lid was flipped open, revealing some electronic devices. The man sighed in relief that everything was intact and free from visible damage. He took one into his hand, and turned a dial, which powered up the unit. After a few minutes, he had the information that he needed to know. According to the temporal GPS invented by his father, the man was currently in the State of Ohio, in the United States. The year – 1862.

The man shook his head and sighed, "Well, at least I'm now in the Industrial Age."

He shivered as he went over the reading of the other meter he had running. This one gave him the coordinates for the location of something that was the reason for his whole fantastic journey of the past few years…

Peter Bishop had diligently marked each passing day - starting about three years ago; which made him about 50 years old now. Peter's brown hair was heavily speckled with gray, and the once small crinkles around his eyes were more pronounced. He wore a full beard, which was also dotted liberally with gray hairs. Yet, his body was still strong and lean, and he mercifully did not suffer from any ailments associated with middle-age. He had traveled from the time of the dinosaurs, to ancient Greece; to Siberia, China, South America, and many more times and places.

He really didn't know why he did it - marking the passage of "time" - it wasn't as if aging mattered to him any more. Not since he had lost her, making him feel the sting of prolonged agony each day that he awakened, and realized that yes; she was still gone from the world. Peter would often dream of seeing her lifeless body in the morgue, and how he could barely remember making it back to their - his- home. Astrid and Ella were there with him as he mumbled and pointed while making the arrangements for Olivia's funeral; but honestly, Peter could remember very little.

At first, he'd also see her in his dreams, and she would talk with him. She'd tell him that it wasn't his fault; he couldn't have known Walternate's plans; that she loved him… But as Peter went on, he saw less of her, and she stopped visiting him entirely.

All that he had left was a worn and tattered wedding photo, his wedding band, her gold cross necklace, and his silver Liberty dollar. Peter thought it may have been silly to hold these small objects in such reverence, but at the same time he couldn't help the attachment he felt to these little reminders of the life he had, and that he shared with Olivia. Fifteen years of marriage were not enough.

Once he had convinced the two women that he was not going to kill himself with alcohol poisoning, they left him alone for long enough to write a proper eulogy for his beloved wife. Peter set aside the vodka that was his emotional crutch, because he wanted to be clearheaded for this task. She was more than that to him. Olivia Dunham was Peter's tether, his light in the dark, his purpose; his lover, friend, and soul-mate. He would give anything to just feel her warm arms around him for just a few minutes. Peter was so cold - so lonely - but he never gave up hope that when he finished his mission soon, that all would turn out right in the end.

He wasn't far from a small village outside of Columbus. There, he would be able to tag the last piece of the vacuum machine, so that it could be located in the future, to create a healing bridge between two ailing sister-universes, without his direct involvement.

Although Peter was mostly healthy, he was not totally immune from the effects of time on his fifty year old body. His bones ached deeply from the cold dampness, and he had developed a nagging, deep cough. He could almost hear Olivia in his ear telling him to rest and not to push himself so hard. But it was the memory of her that made Peter diligent and unwavering in his mission.

_There will be time to rest later. All the time in the world… if I choose to take it._

Carefully, he placed the instruments back into their protective cases, although he really didn't need them any longer. Once his final task was accomplished, Peter would be here to stay. He had to make a life for himself here for the remainder of his days… or not. Peter had considered many options, but in the end, he'd die alone. He couldn't risk having a family in this time. Really, he thought should just go off as live as a hermit.

Peter mapped out a traveling plan; then, he took off down an old dirt road; an ancient pathway marked by the drudge of wheel ruts filled by mud. After walking for several hours, Peter had enough. He was weary and also hungry. All he could do now was to find a place to rest. He came upon a barn, and in the still of the night, he made his way inside. He took a small kinetic powered flashlight from his coat, and used its soft light to find a nice pile of hay in the loft. Peter peeled the leather shoes off his feet, along with the soaked and rank-smelling socks. He flopped his weary body onto the hay, then covered up with a wool blanket. He reached his shivering hand into a coat pocket in order to retrieve a photograph encased in Lucite. It was a wedding picture. They were so happy...

Peter muttered a silent prayer as he closed his eyes, that all he had been through would be worth it in the end .

 


	2. Inner Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His heart is lost... Better times are remembered. M-rated scene.

_**Rain, feel it on my finger tips** _

_**Hear it on my window pane** _

_**Your love's coming down like** _

_**Rain, wash away my sorrow** _

_**Take away my pain** _

_**Your love's coming down like rain** _

The room is filled with steam; a result from the highly-effective shower head in the Bishops' bathroom. A light melody floats through the air, as Peter Bishop glides softly inside, careful not to alert his presence to the source of the singing. He smiles, standing with his hands in the pockets of his soft, dark blue robe, happy to hear her sing. Olivia has a beautiful voice, and he feels extremely lucky to be one of the few people who have heard it. It saddens him that she does not lift her voice up in happiness more often. Their lives have been very hard with all that has happened since the day the other universe was destroyed; today was a particularly rough day. But here, in the haven of their home, she relaxes. And Peter will be damned if she does not receive the comfort that she deserves. He messed up royally today; but, in their world, he and Olivia learned long ago not to hold grudges.

Letting the robe slide off her shoulders, Olivia turns around in order to hang it up on a hook, and she smiles like a naughty school girl when she sees Peter standing by the doorway, his smoky blue eyes still vibrant in the haze of the steam. His eyes cannot hide the fact that they are feasting upon her nude body, as if it was a temptation placed in front of a man within a few millimeters of having his self-control completely snapped. His soft smile communicates a great reverence; almost like that for a goddess. He emanates an intense desire to worship -stoked by a fiery lust. All he needs is a sign; otherwise, he remains motionless; consumed and powerless in her naked glory.

Swaying her hips, Olivia steps up to Peter, and undoes the tie-belt of his robe, her green eyes not leaving his blue as she does so. His breath is very heavy, and erratic. He swallows hard, his shaft already at full attention just from looking at her in this rare, vulnerable state. Only for him. No matter what other things had caused pain to Peter in his life, he felt so lucky and grateful that she is his, and he is hers. Even after ten years of marriage, he has eyes only for her; they still rut like newlyweds when they have the chance.

The steam makes her look ethereal to him; her skin glistening like diamonds. Peter shrugs the robe off, but unlike neat Olivia, he grunts as he kicks it into a corner with his foot. He then starts to reach for her, but she strides a few steps to the shower and tilts her head to the side; her blond hair cascading over the front of her chest; enveloping her breasts like a sheer curtain. Her gaze to Peter, tells him without words to "come hither." The looks between them have always been a part of their love-making foreplay; loving each other with just mere thought. This prelude could last for days at a time. Her hungry stares are enough to drive him into a carnal animal, and her affectionate glances bring him to his knees with their tenderness.

Peter steps into the shower and Olivia follows, but she reaches from behind him and cups his balls in her hands, rolling them back and forth, eliciting quivers and a gasp from him. She strokes his length, with a languid motion; partially using his own fluid to help lubricate her teasing motions; spiraling her hand with alternating pressure around his girth from root to tip. Her free hand massages over his hot and soaked body. Peter can't help but to rapidly pump himself into her hand, with low groans of appreciation escaping his throat. Just as she feels him tighten and she notices the tone of his appreciation has changed, she doubles her efforts, and her reward is Peter coming undone like a fire hose with a kink in it. Olivia embraces him; her head resting upon his shoulder as he caresses her back; his eyes closed and lips upturned in a smile of immense happiness. "I almost lost you today," she softly whispers. Peter lifts his head up, eyes now open wide as he stares at the ceiling. He sighs and cusps her chin in his left hand - looks with soulful regret into her eyes, and gently whispers, "I know."

A moment's silence for a ritual that had become routine to them. A major reason they decided not to bring much-wanted children into the world. They accepted that any day, one of them might not come home.

"For some reason, that makes me extremely horny," Olivia grins at him, trying to lighten the mood again.

"Oh?" Peter holds her tight against him, using the wall as support to corral her in. He grabs the detachable shower head, the pulsing stream from the shower head becomes a delightful torture to her center spot of nerves, and she writhes against him; begging him to stop. Long fingers; first one, then two; are inserted into her wanting body that is aching for fulfillment. The curved strokes of Peter's fingers, coupled with the warm, pulsing, teasing water - and the hot look of control and desire radiating from Peter's eyes - become Olivia's undoing.

"Peter…Dear… please, please, I can't take anymore! You're killing me!"

He gives in to her demand, and places the shower-head back upon its perch. Kissing her sloppily, and rapidly sucking his way up her neck, Peters brings his lips to her ear as she comes down from her high, and he heavily whispers, "Hm … Sweetheart, how many times over the years have I almost killed you?" He traces the outside of her ear lightly with his tongue, and then he greedily sucks her ear lobe with a heavy breath, causing her to shiver. "Besides, in this day and age, death by orgasm is a great way to go. Come on, Honey. I love it when you come for me, come all over me…"

Olivia reaches between them and gives him a few seductive tugs with just the right pressure to make his knees weak. He's no longer a young man; but, Olivia has a great effect on his stamina, which makes him more than capable of going again. He picks her up abruptly, and she instinctively wraps her long, soft slender legs around his waist. Peter nibbles her ear as the water streams down their slick bodies, and then joins with her gently, deliberating, slow - then back and almost out. With her arms gripping around his broad, flexed shoulders, she only moans into his shoulder at his delicious torture.

"I love you so much it hurts, Sweetheart," Peter softly murmurs to her, his nose buried into her neck - another push into her as far as he could, but this time a bit faster and more solid.

The pace of the movement in his hips increases and he wraps his strong arms around Olivia so that she is as close to him as possible. He smells her hair as she cradles her head into his shoulder; her sounds of pleasure muffled, but he can tell that her apex has almost been reached. Peter adjusts the width of his stance so that he has to thrust more upward into her, knowing from her body's reaction and her nails in his back that he has found Olivia's switch to her floodgate. The inner pleasure has been building deep and slow, and when her dam finally breaks, she whimpers and gasps; then her straining voice fills the room with an invocation of his name… 

 

 

* * *

  
  
"What?" A very startled Peter jumped as he awoke to a deluge of cold water that fell onto his face.  
  
Disoriented, he looked up and saw another middle-aged man, wearing a tan colored, broad-brimmed slouch hat, a brown sack coat and woolen trousers. He had a stern look on his face and a musket now aimed at Peter.  
  
"Are you the deadbeat bounty jumper that's been raidin' my smokehouse? Because I reckon that I've had 2 large hams, and countless rashers of bacon disappear over the last few weeks, and I've been waiting to catch the rotten thief! And here he be!  
  
Just another dream of long forgotten memories. Peter fought back the tears as he realized his current situation. Being blown away by an angry farmer didn't sound too bad of a way to go...

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics - "Rain" by Madonna


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter starts to become accustomed to the idea of living out the rest of his days as a farmhand, but a request leads him to meet a familiar face. Together, they go where he had never expected to end up...

The sky had reached its noonday highpoint. Peter took a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe the sweat from his brow. He had been working nonstop with the mules since daybreak. The deep, earthy scent of the turned-over dirt, in the neat furrows they had plowed, was heavy in his nostrils.

As he stood in the cool spring breeze, the familiar odor took him back to a happier time.

* * *

 

_Olivia had kept a small vegetable garden in the backyard of their Boston home. She also maintained abundant grape vines and several strawberry, raspberry, and blackberry patches. This was her way to supplement the standardized food that they had grown accustomed to over the years, as their world increasingly fell apart, making it difficult to obtain many favorites. She and Peter fared better than many others due to their place in the Fringe Division, but some things were nearly impossible to obtain. She also grew flowers; their favorite being white tulips._

_During the spring, summer and fall, on the rare occasions that they weren't trying to hold the world together, she could usually be found working in the dirt or sitting in her favorite lounge chair and reading. Her garden was her escape, and Peter often had his place there beside her._

_Sometimes they would picnic and make love under the stars._

_Oh, how he'd give anything to be able to tease her with an earthworm again, or to just spend hours quietly setting new plants, the only way that they could bring new life into the world together._

* * *

For the past few weeks Peter had been working for the farmer who had initially accused him of being a "thieving bounty jumper." Mr. Thomas Lee grew corn, and lots of it. In fact, everyone in this community did. The price for the staple crop was through the roof; fueled by the demand of feeding the Federal army's cavalry, artillery and supply horses.

Peter had used his quick wit and identity creation skills from his conman days to concoct a story that fooled the man, and probably saved his life in the process. He didn't stray too far from the truth, which he found made a ruse much easier to maintain. He explained that he was Peter Bishop, from Boston, and that he had lost his wife to murder; he was tracking the man who killed her.

Mr. Lee took a liking to Peter, as they were both the same age, and the newcomer was a hard worker. But what really solidified his sentiments was the trap that Peter had constructed. It caught the real thief who had been stealing food from the storehouse, who turned out to be just a teenage boy. The boy was set to work for Mr. Lee to earn his keep.

They had agreed on a work arrangement as Peter had admitted that he was almost out of money and supplies. He'd perform work on the Lee farm for a month, and had the option to stay.

His chronological three-year mission completed, whatever happened to him now did not matter. He had contemplated taking the contents of a small vial that he had kept with him since he started, but he ended up throwing the damned thing into a fire instead. He decided that he would try to live out the rest of his days as a widowed farmhand, or something else inconspicuous. Peter made a mental note at that time that he had to find a way to have some papers made up for him if he was to actually take part in society.

The two men soon became friends, and Mr. Lee was quite the talker. One starry evening, the two of them listened to the spring peepers and enjoyed some good tobacco and beer, all products of the farm.

"Do you have any children, Mr. Bishop?" the farmer asked after taking a long puff on his hand-carved burlwood pipe.

Peter rocked back and forth in an old chair for a few moments as he thought about how to answer this question.

* * *

 

_The truth of the matter was that he and Olivia almost did have a surprise baby, but she miscarried, and they were devastated. Immediately after, Peter had a vasectomy. Olivia agonized over the decision, but she had felt before the pregnancy that it wasn't fair to bring children into a dying world; she didn't want any more surprises—her heart had suffered enough. Shortly before her death, he had brought the question back up again, due to a happy drawing made by the little girl who lived across the street from them. "That's you, me, and the little baby that we're going to have," Olivia smiled, giving him a flicker of hope. Peter's heart about melted into a puddle, and he decided to get brave._

_They were approaching their fifties, and even though they each had some of their respective gametes frozen, they knew from experience that carrying babies at that age was a risky proposition. She appeared so mournful looking into his eyes. Peter could not hide the fact it upset him that others had happy children who didn't seem to notice anything wrong about the world. But Olivia had never been sheltered from fear as a child, and she would not raise a child to be blissfully ignorant about the very real peril they lived in. She reminded him that she had lost her sister with no warning, and that was the end of it._

* * *

"No. Sadly, I do not. I had a bad fever as a child, and the doctors say that it rendered me sterile. All I had was my beautiful, understanding wife. She was everything to me."

"Sorry to hear that. You and I have something in common then. 'Cept I have an adopted son; Jackson. Doesn't matter where he came from, he came to me and my ol' Janie, and we raised him like our own. I love that boy more than this farm, more than my own hide. Always tried to be a good father to him. He's coming back from the Ohio State University. Yup, we sent him there because the boy has potential, and as his father for all intents and purposes, I wanted to give him the best, ya know? Anyway, he's got the war fever. I can't talk him out of it. He says young men his age are fighting and dying, and here he is living the life of a dandy. Bunch of these fellas all quit school; say it's a matter of honor."

"I say, where's the honor in dying to make other people live like us? If the rebs want their own country, then I say, Lord, let them have it. There is no honor in sacrificing one's self like that. Lincoln is a big ape tossing his weight around. All they care about in the Capitol is making sure that the rest of the world doesn't see us as weak. It's not like one side is literally destroying the other. We just see things differently."

Peter rubbed his chin and thought on a way to respond. That last statement hit a little too close to home. He knew about all of the complex issues concerning this war because he had the luxury of studying it in hindsight. He knew that civil rights and state's rights would continue to be a thorn in the nation's side, even well into the 21st century. As such, he had to be careful about what he said.

"Act well, your part; there, all the honor lies."

The farmer wondered if there was more to this man than he would ever tell.

"I know a thing or two about sacrifice. I, too, thought that I knew all of the answers and had the right solution. Wrongfully destroying a perceived enemy was a cost that I had to bear. No man should have such absolute power. I was humbled to find out that there was another way. There's always another way. War is actually the easiest resort, but has the highest overall cost. And when you're wrong; it ruins your life. Even worse, it takes down the people who mean the most. I spent the better part of my life learning the cost of unfettered vengeance."

Peter was afraid that maybe he had said too much, and that Lee would seek an explanation, but he did not.

"You're a wise man, Peter. That's why I am going to ask a favor of you. Chances are that the man you seek for killing yer wife has been swallowed up by the army. You'd most likely find him hiding like a dog among the huge ranks of others; just soaking up the bonus money. Jackson plans on joining up with the infantry at Camp Chase. Would you go with him, enlist, and keep an eye on him? I'd go myself, but…" He pulled up a pants leg, revealing a huge, ragged scar. "I got my shot at 'honor and glory' in Mexico," Lee laughed.

Peter rubbed his eyes and offered a smile back to the other man. This was not in his plans. But then again, what plans? Playing guardian to a young man wasn't the worst thing that could happen. But marching off to fight in what he knew was a bloody and incredibly cruel war? Old men did not fare well in the infantry, and he fit the bill as old for these times. Somehow, keeling over in a rocking chair sounded more appealing than having his head blown off, getting dysentery, starving, dying from exposure, suffering from imprisonment, expiring from gangrenous infection, or from the many other lovely ways death could have him…

* * *

 

_Eh, what's one more grand adventure? I've been conman, hit man, gambler, MIT professor, meat-packer, hacker, air cargo pilot, a hot-shot jumper, engineer, universe-destroying battery, wormhole-patcher, mountaineer, centurion, and time traveler. Adding Union soldier to the list isn't too far of a stretch. Although I'm still disappointed that I never actually got to be a brontosaurus…_

_Maybe I can talk the boy into the cavalry instead…_


	4. You're in the Army Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter ends up in the infantry. He meets someone that takes his breath away.

Every time that he saw a mounted patrol go by, Peter cursed his crappy luck. No cavalry for him; no sir. His lot was cast with the foot-sloggers, thanks to his 22-year-old charge, Jackson Lee.

Now, it was endless drill, drill, drill, for him. Days filled with "shoulder arms," "Right shoulder shift," "carry arms," "by the right column march," "Wheel forward," "skirmish line," and a zillion other formations and arms commands. All barked by a lovely, feisty Sergeant by the name of Francis. David Francis. Peter had to stop himself from calling him Charlie, even though he made the Francis he knew look like a tea-cup poodle compared to his bark. Peter took to his new craft with vigor and never had an issue, but Lee… well… He needed all the help he could get. For such a smart guy, it almost seemed like the fella had two left feet, and Francis loved to make an example of him.

His introduction to the Lee boy was interesting, to say the least. Peter looked over the other man who offered his hand and introduced himself; a man who just had to be an incarnation of Lincoln Lee, right down to some unbecoming spectacles.

Lee was obviously full of piss and vinegar, eager to prove himself in an era still very much hung up on the concept of masculine honor. He was not amused that his father was sending him off to war with an "old nurse-maid." But Peter set out to win over the guy. It would help if he actually liked the man, if it ever came down to protecting him.

"Tell me something, Jackson," Peter mused. "How in the world did you end up with your name being a combination of two of the Confederacy's main generals?"

"Don't know, other than it's a joke from the Lord that I've grown quite tired of," the younger man sighed. "It's caused me more trouble… Pa said that Jackson was what my momma gave me, so they went with it."

Rumor had it that Jackson was the bastard son of a well-known politician in these parts; possibly an Ohio senator.

* * *

 

Before reporting for the train station to take them to the training camp, Peter made sure to buy some personal supplies; knowing what he knew about Civil War equipment, facilities, and sanitation. He first made it a point to purchase several pairs of light cotton drawers. They'd be needed; he could go free-balling in a pair of jeans or sweatpants, but experience here taught him that he wasn't too keen on having his junk rubbed raw by sweaty, scratchy, wool trousers on the march. Although he supposed long shirt tails could serve a similar protective purpose. Of all things that Peter never expected to miss, modern briefs were near the top of the list.

He bought several pairs of wool socks, two sturdy linen shirts, and a well-made, beaver felt slouch hat to keep the sun off of his neck and face. A coffee boiler was an absolute necessity, and not just for coffee. Peter was going to try and boil every bit of water he could, even though he knew that would probably be a futile task; it would at least lessen his chances of picking up dysentery, cholera, giardia, typhoid, or any other terrible, diarrhea-death-producing critter. Never a fan of modern public restrooms for doing his business, Peter was squeamish at the thought of his bare rear end and nuts flapping in the breeze while using the company sinks-latrines. He figured that he might sneak off and dig "cat holes" when he needed to relieve himself in that manner. Another modern thing; long missed: Toilet paper.

In that same spirit, he bought a small stash of alcohol strictly for disinfectant purposes, and several bars of soap. Hand washing could literally save his life, and he was going to teach—no force—Lee to do the same. Rounding out his kit was a deck of playing cards, and some dice, which he could put tp good use for gambling in camp to supplement his income; a pipe, some tobacco, a sewing kit, and a cone of sugar.

_Upon his arrival at the enlistment office, he was given a laughable medical examination by the regimental surgeon, named Frank Stanton. There was some concern for his age, but as he possessed the best looking full set of teeth they had ever seen, and he seemed to be strong, Peter was passed with flying colors. It was interesting that his excellent nutrition and dental care as a child had put him in better health than men 30 years his junior. At six-two he was one of the tallest men in his company._

When he received his uniform, it was a hilarious sight. The sky-blue kersey wool trousers were too short for his incredibly long legs, and they had too much give in the seat. As a younger man, Peter had possessed what many women—especially Olivia—had considered a fine ass. But recent hardship made it seemingly fall off. Sadly, he had a case of "old man ass;" in other words, no ass to speak of.

A shapeless, lined, indigo blue sack-coat made him feel like a scarecrow. He was given the most shoddily constructed brogan shoes he had ever seen; there was no discernible right or left. His useless issue forage cap was stuffed away in favor of his protective, personal slouch hat. He knew a thing or two about surviving in the elements, and he fully expected to be exposed to every kind of trial imaginable.

In contrast to his covering, the arms allotment—the real tools of the killing business—was stunning. The regiment was equipped with the most beautiful Springfield Armory 1861 model rifles. Peter had to keep his inner knowledge about the effectiveness of breach-loading repeating rifles to himself. If the army had equipped every soldier with them early on, the war would have ended much sooner. Of course, he was aware of a lot of what-ifs and could-have-beens. He had to be very careful to not accidentally say something that might alter the outcome of any battle, and as such, history itself.

_The only thing he wanted was to change was destroying their sister universe; the killing of BILLIONS of people. After that, he deserved losing Olivia, but she did not deserve to suffer such a cruel end. Little did these people know that they had the greatest weapon of mass destruction to have ever been unleashed on all of creation, right in their midst. All wrapped up in the most unassuming package: A man who was forced to make a choice he didn't want to make, because he was scared, felt cornered, and only wanted his loved ones to survive. Sure, he was not motivated by evil like Stalin, Hitler, Mao, Pol Pot, or any other tyrannical, genocidal dictator, but his "noble intentions" were deadlier than all of them combined._

He received his "leathers," consisting of a belt, cartridge box, cap-pouch, and bayonet sheath. The bayonet itself, he would find to be more useful for roasting meat over a fire, for crushing coffee beans, or for use as a candle holder, than for killing a man. A canteen with wool cover, tarred "waterproofed" haversack, rubber blanket, wool blanket, and double-bag knapsack rounded out his gear. Now outfitted, Peter did not look like some tubby, bearded "farb" reenactor. He was the real deal, and already in decent fighting shape. Or so he thought. There was a lot to learn about being a private soldier in a huge army.

Enlisted and equipped; he and Jackson set off together among the others of the company, as they attempted to learn who would be friend, and who would be trouble.

* * *

 

The look on his face was one of shock.

Jackson had been talking to a couple of fellas who were hanging around a camp fire, when a fight erupted over his name, of all things. Peter jumped into the fray, and after a few minutes of exchanging some heated words and a few blows, the provost guard arrived; the scoundrels scattered. There were four men left together. One small scrappy fellow dusted himself off, laughed and proceeded to try and make friends.

The young "man" standing in front of him was a facsimile image of what Olivia had looked like in her early twenties as a young Marine, execept with cut-short hair. Early in their marriage, she had proudly shown Peter her pictures from her time in the military, and she had looked dashing in her dress uniform with ceremonial sword by her side.

The baby-faced soldier outstretched his hand and introduced himself, "I'm Oliver Lewis."

"Are you, OK there? You look like you saw a ghost."

It was happening again. He HAD SEEN various different incarnations of Olivia in his time travels, so really this shouldn't surprise him as much as it did. He supposed seeing Olivia as a man was what caught him off guard the most.

Peter regained his wits and outstretched his hand, "Peter Bishop. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

The other man was a Scottish immigrant named James Foster.

Later that evening, they had cooked some bacon over a small fire and shared some coffee and tobacco. All were nervous about what the next day would bring.

"So, Peter. Where are ya from? You don't sound like you're from Ohio."

"I'm from Boston."

"Why would a real Yankee make his way out here, just to tramp along in the dirt with a bunch of briar-humping Buckeyes?" Oliver asked.

"What can I say? I like nuts." Peter laughed.

Oliver's nose crinkled as he smiled at Peter's lame joke. "You're a man running from something, aren't you? A bad past maybe? How else would an older feller end up hundreds of miles from home and in the stinking infantry? I'm young, but I wasn't born yesterday," he chuckled.

_Oh, no: I'm running from the most terrible future, worse than your soul could ever imagine._

He supposed that this was one mess he felt at home with. He cosmically belonged with these people.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A "farb" is a disparaging term used in the living history community to describe particpants who make use of anachronisms. For instance, a pair of blue jeans used to mimic Civil War trousers would be considered very farbish. Some hardcore reenactors would consider anything other than 100 percent wool, kersey weave, indigo dyed, sky blue trousers, with significant hand sewn details, to be farby.
> 
> "Far be it for me to judge, but polyester did not exist during the time of the Civil War."
> 
> A "pard" is a very close soldier friend. Soldiers would often have messmates, but many men would develop a friendship with a man who they respected above all others. He may have been a mentor, or they may have shared a defining moment. Losing one's pard was one of the worst experiences a soldier could suffer.


	5. One Day in September

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War is Hell.

 

 

 

 

 

**September 17, 1862 - Sharpsburg, Maryland**

The ground shook beneath Peter's feet as the artillery released its full fury. He had dealt with many explosions in his time, but nothing compared to the concussive thumps and whistling shells of the hundreds of Napoleon and Parrott cannons that were set to their deadly work on this battlefield.

He thought back to all of the old war movies he had seen and shuddered at the thought of having a limb or his head taken off by solid shot. Or to be eviscerated or reduced to a bloody spray of flesh and bone splinters by grapeshot.

His unit had been involved in some smaller skirmishes, and although those were harrowing experiences, nothing could compare to this coming fury.

The greatest concern that caused a huge pit in his stomach, was his feelings for the friends he had made. Of course, he had made a vow to protect young Private Lee, but he had genuinely grown to care for the fella. And he had felt a cosmic duty to do the same for Oliver. But he had to be careful around him. As much as they joked, shared stories, and overcame the many burdens experienced by soldiers in camp, on the march, and in battle; he sometimes drifted into feeling that he was WITH Olivia. To have romantic affection for a man would not go over too well, but the feelings were there, none-the-less.

The middle-aged soldier looked along the line and it really hit him how wasteful this was all going to be. Many of these young men, and maybe he, would not see another sunrise. Part of him wanted desperately to scream for them to run away; to lay down their arms; to not walk right into the fields of Gahanna. Peter had long thought that he was ready to greet the Reaper as a friend, but like many humans, when push-came-to-shove, the will to live was too strong. For the first time, in a very long time, he was afraid.

He had seen death in many forms. Seeing bodies in various states of decay, or mutilation, had become nothing to him as a Fringe agent. When he first started working with Walter in 2008, when he could not stand the man, he was appalled by the scientist's irreverence to the bodies they often encountered. Prior to being wrangled by Olivia, Peter had done a bit of his own killing… but he had the basic human desire to respect the dead. Even modern soldiers had a code of behavior concerning the treatment of enemy corpses. Later, it would become hard for him to remember that a corpse had once been a living, breathing person; someone who probably had a family; perhaps a spouse and/or children.

_Seeing Olivia's body was an entirely different matter… He experienced something unbelievable: The desire to just crawl into a dark hole and sob forever; rage and the yearning for vengeance; begging for God to trade him for her – he would have gratefully gone to Hell if need be. But in the end, the worst feeling was that of his sheer helplessness._

_She was his home, his constant companion, the very center of his compass. He could not bring her back, and he was alone again. An alone Peter Bishop, set aimlessly adrift, is a dangerous thing. Peter wanted to die, and probably would have, if Walter had not come knocking on his door babbling about cheating the rules of time. He didn't really actively remember much of their conversation. All he heard was "get Olivia back," and the next thing he knew, he, Astrid and Ella were all going through a wormhole._

Dehumanizing the dead helped him, and many others over the ages, to cope with the thoughts of the inevitable for all of them. The biggest lesson of all: There is no such thing as a "good death." It was always undignified and terrifying.

He had seen the pictures from Antietam; those that were part of a controversial exhibit which was meant to humanize the dead; meant to show a sheltered public the true cost of war. It's one thing to read about a whopping 22,000 casualties over the course of several days at a place like Shiloh. It was quite another to actually see what were people's fathers, sons, husbands, boyfriends, brothers and friends; clutching at the air lifelessly; clouded eyes staring blankly at the sky; to see that they were missing body parts; to view the piles of men amassed together for burial. He knew they were heading for a section of the battlefield which was known as "The Cornfield." The casualties would be unprecedented. April's shocking Shiloh campaign—which his unit had thankfully missed, would have nothing on the 28,000 who would be killed or wounded on this one day in September.

The Reaper had narrowly missed him a number of times. Maybe he had a hard time keeping up with a man who belonged nowhere... Maybe today would finally be his day. Ironically, tomorrow would be Peter's "birthday." No matter, his weary soul fully expected to be released before night fell. This was the curse of his omnipotence concerning things yet to come, and of not being afforded the luxury of being able to alter these paths. Peter had always considered himself an enemy of fate, but maybe Fate was laughing now.

When the order came, he hitched up his gear, and shouldered his rifle against his chest. Beneath the blue flannel across his breast, his heart pounded relentlessly in his ears. This, and the feet of thousands of his comrades made for one macabre soundtrack. There's no sweeping, heroic orchestral piece here. Oh, no. The scene is set with an intense percussive rhythm of shell and shot, with the shrill whistle of deadly projectiles slicing through the hazy September sky overhead. The excited shouts of men-turned-into-devils barely made it above the discord that surrounded them for miles.

Peter soon drowned this cacophony out and became hyper-aware of himself: He focused only on those around him, and on what lied ahead. This was war for those who fought it. It wasn't a map in a history book, or long sweeping lines of soldiers, executing precision marital maneuvers for a demonstration or parade. This was dirty, and centered at the very personal, visceral level. That day, thousands of stories would emerge. Most with an unhappy ending. The angel of death would have a huge harvest, and those unfortunate enough to be wounded would suffer, many for life. Regardless, the war would be over for them. Some would have deeds of valor. Many would emerge heroes in their own small ways; protecting those they had grown close to as brothers in arms. Some would make heroic war stories, when in reality, they soiled their britches. But in the end, most of this element of the common soldier would be lost to time. Only surviving letters and diaries from those who lived it would offer a small chapter in the overall tale of this most bloody of days.

Peter knew that all of this would be overshadowed by pictures. All there would be left of some of these men would be pictures.

As silly as it was in the grand scheme of things, especially since he knew better… he hoped for a "good death." There was no glory in this at all. There was only the promise of oblivion-both mortal and spiritual.

As the lines tramped their way through the field, stalks of corn would comically smack the advancing soldiers in the face. Bullets also whizzed through this forest of fodder; both plant and man. No one really knew if the curses that rose up from individuals were from the sting of rebounding corn, or from taking a minie ball… That is until the one who uttered it either fell over, or started clutching at his body in pain. The worst was the artillery grapeshot which exploded shrapnel pieces all around.

Peter caught a glimpse as once such shell explosion took out James Foster and the men that surrounded him. They fell like dead weight, as if cut down by a scythe. He swallowed hard. There was no time to process what he had just witnessed.

Then he saw it: A deep line of Confederates as thick as the greybacks had been on his head at one time.

 

**They were coming.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are interested in seeing some of the photos from Antietam, you can find them at :
> 
> By Alexander Gardner: http://www.nps.gov/ncr/photosmultimedia/photogallery.htm?id=2412F92B-1DD8-B71C-0728A9DF066D2649
> 
> By Matthew Brady: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/05/antietam-photo-exhibit_n_1941960.html
> 
>  
> 
> These are pictures of dead men, and are just as upsetting now as they were over 150 years ago.


	6. Cold Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coping with some hard truths, and a secret is out.

 

 

 

 

It was the evening time, and the sun was fading in the sky. Among a copse of trees, soldiers were spread out in every direction. Some were sitting and attempting to eat whatever could be scrounged out of their haversacks. Others tried in vain to catch a little desperately needed sleep.

Peter was among them. He sat with his arms around his knees at some points; gently rocking back and forth. He was in horrible pain; his muscles had been exerted to the limit, and they unmercifully throbbed. His bones even ached at the core, which reminded him of his age. At other times, he'd stare until his eyes stung, with a vacancy that would be scary in most instances. The ringing in his ears was enough to drive him mad, and his throat was torn to shreds. No water seemed to be able to slake his unquenchable thirst.

Worst of all; he didn't know any of these men. The fate of his dearest comrades was unknown to him. All of this together gripped him in a state of incapacitation.

Horror was the one word description for what he had witnessed. He questioned if he really was alive, or if this was some kind of limbo for those who had been slaughtered. That was another perfect word to describe what had happened: Men and horses were literally cut into pieces like hogs in a meat market. The old soldier had no clue how he had made it out alive, let alone what had occurred for him to end up here. Everything was a blur; a gigantic blender of blood and gore.

"Peter…"

The shaken man suddenly jumped, and then he stared wild-eyed at the brave, or stupid, soul who shook him.

Then a cheer of relief escaped from his hoary throat. In front of him were Jackson and Oliver. Both had survived. The three of them embraced and the tears flowed liberally.

The "victory" on that little Maryland battlefield had cost them dearly. As their regiment reassembled and fell back into place, the missing were quite noticeable, as the unit had lost forty percent of its strength. Many good men died that day. Sergeant Francis was promoted to Lieutenant due to the loss of many of their officers. Peter had hoped to find out what had happened to their friend, the Scotsman, James Foster. This was a clear case of being careful what you wish for. He, Jackson, and Oliver were placed on a burial detail, and they came across the remains of their comrades. All of the horror of the battle came into clear focus, with striking detail, once they were out of immediate danger. Many of their comrades had to be collected in pieces…

Peter wrote letters to the families of some of the dead men. He knew Foster had a fiancée, and it killed him to send the poor girl the man's Bible and pictures…

* * *

 

**Winter, 1863**

_He could hear a familiar voice belting out tunes from "Singing in the Rain."_

_"You need your strength, Son," Walter stated as he piled multiple servings of food onto plates in front of his son, while Peter greedily devoured everything in sight, not ashamed of his gluttonous behavior._

_Tons and tons of blueberry pancakes, flooded with butter and syrup._

_Thick slabs of fragrant and perfectly crisp bacon._

_Mugs full of aromatic coffee._

He felt a boot nudge to his ribs and awoke to see Jackson's not-so-happy face directly above him.

"Damn it, Pete. Wake up, ya' old knocker. We don't want to give Francis an excuse to write any of us up on report. You need to be relieving Corporal Fayette from picket duty in 15 minutes."

No time for breakfast; even in his dreams. His world went from hurry-up-and-wait one day, to a flurry of constant maneuvers and activity the next.

Peter offered a sly grin and said, "You are the most beautiful thing to wake up to after a nice dream, ya know that?"

Jackson puckered his lips. "Who cares about dream women? I'll give you a kiss if you hurry the hell up. And don't wake Oliver. He's not been feeling well the past few days. He's cramping bad."

It was Peter's turn to stand guard. He stood up, and his knees and back protested.

Wiping the night drool from his face, he muttered, "Jesus, I am getting too old for this circus."

His stomach angrily reacted to the tease of his dream. He popped open his raunchy haversack and pulled out a hardtack, and then resigned himself to having to make do with the tasteless stone cracker.

  


 

Peter had become a sight to behold. Olivia never would have recognized him. Truly a fighting man, he was more toned than he had ever been in his life; very lean from constant extreme exertion, mixed with hunger. The dirt from five states coated his uniform and boots, all of which had various mended tears or missing buttons. The regiment was waiting for a resupply, but they were still outfitted in the uniforms that had seen heavy fighting from the campaigns of the preceding summer.

The aging man's hands were always aching, and the jet-black residue of gunpowder seemed to permanently coat the skin atop the tips of his fingers, along with the grease from his good friend, salt pork. He had nearly no nails to speak of; there was never a chance for them to grow. However, his beard did grow, and he was more grey than brown now.

He kept a pocket watch, which should have long been rendered inoperable as many times as he had fallen on it, or because of all the instances that it became soaked from the many downpours he had endured. Just like its owner; it kept ticking longer than expected.

They were now veterans of three campaigns; having survived the fury of Antietam, the cold killing of Fredericksburg, and the high tide in the Pennsylvania hills and fields at Gettysburg. Being a veteran did something to a person. It sure did to him. Peter had wondered several times in his life if he was insane. Those with high intellect often had… issues. Many in his company now dubbed him as "Mad Pete," instead of "Old man," because of the unorthodox ways in which Peter had overcome several close-and-personal encounters with the Rebels. He countered that there was no madness to it. Just brain power and a bit of luck from his persnickety charm—the silver coin that he carried, if it "chose" to allow it. Its surface was starting to wear smooth from the nervous soldier's constant maneuvering of the metal piece across his fingers. He was very possessive of the thing, and would let no one touch it—ever.

Peter had been threatened on several instances with stripes, but he had no intention of becoming any sort of leader in this mess if he could help it. He preferred to be a line private, while toting his rifle among his friends: The three of them had miraculously survived this long, though each had been wounded. Peter fully expected the watch to outlast him. In fact, he was counting on it.

His gear was prepared and he bundled himself up in his greatcoat.

He exited the makeshift hut that they had constructed from logs and some slapped together shelter tent halves. "Damn," he cursed as he shivered; it was pouring the snow, and the Virginia wind was bitter; it chilled the middle-aged man's body to the bone. He trudged across the camp and to the guard tent. There was Lt. Francis, looking over his pocket watch, almost hoping that Peter would be late so he could write him up on report. The man was a hard ass, through and through; but, his part of the company was comprised of top-notch, disciplined soldiers.

Peter had a love-hate relationship with guard duty. On one hand, he wasn't exactly keen to get up out of a nice warm bunk at the crack of dawn. But, on the other; he liked to be alone with his thoughts. Guard duty was about the only time that this was possible in the infantry. Everyone was always in everybody's face, from sun up, to sun down. That was just the nature of the beast. But even having this small luxury from time-to-time could be a curse cloaked as a blessing. His thoughts always wandered to Olivia, and it took everything to keep it together when they did.

Today, he was reminded of how much he liked going out on stakeouts with her. It was just the two of them; on the lookout for suspicious activity, or to locate a specific perpetrator. When they were younger, there were a few instances where they had behaved quite… unprofessionally. With time, and more dire circumstances, the playfulness that had existed in the waning days of their youth was tucked away. She was all business in the field, and expected him to be as well. However, in the sanctuary of their home, Peter was the lucky one who got to see Olivia Dunham's other side. He loved all of her attributes equally; her courageous and protective justice seeking nature, along with her loving, joyful, and frisky identity.

Six hours later, Jackson came huffing and puffing as he ran to take Peter's place. The older man cocked his head at the comical sight, and wondered why Private Lee was running so hard: He had plenty of time to change over guard duty. When the young charge got close, Peter saw distress on his face, and he wondered if the Rebs were attacking the camp or something…

"Peter! It's Oliver! I told you he wasn't feeling well, and that he had the cramps pretty bad. Well, he's really bad off and feverish. Spent most of the day off in the woods. I am assuming with the 'screamers.' He's refusing to see the surgeon. You need to try and convince him…"

Peter's gut felt like it had been kicked. They had been fastidiously clean as possible, but it sounded like Oliver had managed to pick up an illness. He only hoped that he had enough of his medical supplies left to help. The last he wanted to do was have Oliver end up in the regimental hospital. All kinds of camp-borne scourges had taken hold, and there wasn't a day that went by where at least one unfortunate soul had the "Dead March" played for them, as they were interred in a makeshift cemetery several miles outside of the winter camp.

Upon entering the hut, he gave Oliver—who was completely covered in wool blankets—an exasperated look at first, which quickly turned to a scolding glare.

"Don't hate me, Pete. But I think I drank some bad water…"

He had specifically insisted that while they were in camp, that the three of them would boil every drop of water that they would consume. Camp with thousands of men was the perfect breeding ground for illness, and disease sometime would ravage a unit's fighting strength before spring campaigns arrived.

"Too late now… you kids never listen to your elders. Taking the easy way made you lose your bowels, and that my friend, is the fastest way to die in the field. It'd be a shame if we lost you to this after the firestorms that we've survived!"

The "elder" realized that anger was not helping matters much for his deathly ill friend.

"Son, I'm sorry. It was a mistake. I've made plenty myself, consequences be damned. But I can do my best to help you. These clothes must be cleaned," he offered softly as he started to unbutton Oliver's shirt.

The youngster's eyes grew wide and he softly grabbed Peter's hands.

"Don't, Pete. Stop…" said with as much conviction as could be mustered by the ailing soldier.

"Don't be silly, Oliver. You ain't got nothing that I do..n't…

_Scratch that…._

Oliver look mortified, and Peter pulled the blanket up over his chest…

Except it wasn't "his" chest.

Peter found out the reason for the small soldier's seemingly irrational bashfulness… Something was kept hidden underneath a makeshift biding.

He had suspected as much, because he knew similar instances had occurred in both armies.

"Oliver" was "Olivia" after all…

_Suspicions arose, as he noticed that he and Jackson would relieve themselves just about anywhere without a care concerning who was present. Crudely, most men did, given the opportunity, and soldiers were as about as coarse as humanity could get. But Oliver was never beside either one of them to answer nature's call. Of course, many young men at the time were quite modest... but Peter wasn't quite sure if Oliver qualified. He never undressed in front of anyone either. Peter was perfectly fine sitting in the buff while he washed his clothes, which even mortified Jackson's sensibilities. Or more likely he was jealous... Plus, Olivier may have been small, but there was some curvature to the hips that just weren't manly. Unlike these Victorian era fellas, Peter was used to seeing the female form in pants, and even loose ones could not hide what he knew to be a more feminine form._

He removed the blanket and set back out to complete the task that had led to this discovery. It was important to do so in order for Oliver to fight off the illness

"Don't worry, kiddo. I'm not saying a word to anyone… Now let's get you well, eh?"

For the better part of a week, Peter spent his waking hours off-duty attending to his friend. Jackson assisted when he couldn't. No more was said of his discovery, and Jackson continued to be in the dark concerning Oliver's secret. Peter had managed to make a fine soup from chicken that he had purchased from an enterprising farmer who would make weekly visits to the regiment's camp. That, and the dried vegetables they received in their rations was very helpful. He also spent a lot of money on ginger ale from the sutler. The prices were highway robbery, but he held on to the majority of his pay anyway. It was his arsenal of antiseptics and steadfast cleanliness that made the most difference, along with plenty of disinfected water. In time, his friend had regained strength, and was very grateful to him for that… and the other reason.

* * *

_Oliver actually reminded him of his young niece, Ella, in some ways. Although Olivia and Peter had no children of their own, Ella became theirs to raise after both of her parents were lost to a huge vortex rift. He tried his best to give the young child the best he possibly could. He and Olivia were so proud when she had chosen to follow in their footsteps. She had a great sense of duty and devotion, just like her aunt Liv. Fringe Division had gained a great asset when she proudly joined the ranks._

_After Olivia's funeral, he could not bear to look at the young woman who was the closest thing that he'd ever have to a daughter._

_He vaguely recalled seeing her standing with Astrid in the hallway of his home. Bottles from various hard liquors were strewn across his living room table, and he had fallen over to his side on the couch; sobbing and telling them to just leave him alone._

_"Will Uncle Peter ever get over losing her?"_

_Astrid knew the truth, and couldn't sugarcoat it for the young woman her two friends had raised._

_"I am afraid for him, Ella. I don't think he will. I am truly afraid that we have lost the both of them…"_

_Olivia's sweet little innocent niece went from begging her beloved Uncle Peter to show her magic tricks; to being tutored by him; to becoming a soldier in a fight that was essentially his making. The night he and Liv had sat her down to tell her the truth about Fringe Division; about the other universe; about Peter's real origin; and about why the world was crumbling around them—was incredibly difficult. But she never blamed him for the state of the world and all of the consequences of him being alive and the choice that he had made._

_Everyone blamed Walter… when all Walter wanted was for his son to live… somewhere._

_Walter swore they could alter this fate. The three of them—he, Ella, and Astrid—said their goodbyes and hoped to reset the mistake that had led to the terrible future they had lived in._

_Noble intentions – Unknown catastrophic consequences. The Bishop Family legacy._

 

* * *

One night, as the pards slept, Peter woke up to find Oliver nearly embracing him in slumber. Figuring Jackson wouldn't make anything of it, as soldiers often spooned when they slept to take advantage of shared body heat, he shrugged it off.

Letting in the slightest affection was a dangerous path to tread, and he knew it. But he had told his rational brain to shut the hell up long ago…

 

 


	7. Moonlit River Rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On furlough, and things get complicated in more ways than one. (M-rating)

_**Spring, 1864**_  
  
After a winter that seemed like it would never stop its assault, spring arrived with resupply and lots of playing hurry-up-and-wait. The army had grown fat—well at least by military standards—in their inactivity and due to the uninterrupted access to food that wasn't hardtack and salt pork.  
  
With no action in the immediate future, the three soldier friends were given a month long furlough; essentially, a soldier's vacation. Jackson wanted to return to Ohio to see his family. From letters, it was discovered that Mr. Lee's health was failing. He had hired a man to oversee the day-to-day operation of the family farm. Having no family—only each other—Oliver and Peter had been invited to come to visit the Lee family. The old man wanted to see Peter to thank him for watching over his son.  
  
Much of their time would be spent traveling. At first, they'd walk, but the goal was to catch a train for most of the trip. It was still a dangerous world for a soldier, even if he wasn't traveling with an army. There were guerilla units and Rebel cavalry all over the countryside. Although the only people they had come across in their first day were other Federal soldiers, and escaped slaves. The condition of the men, women, and children severely touched Peter's conscience, so he gave a few families some of his money. Jackson and Oliver, while sympathetic to the plight of the negroes, only shook their heads at their "Boston abolitionist" friend.  
  
It was the later part of their first day on the road, and they had made camp near a small river. There was a nice spot in the trees to make their site, and it appeared that this was a long favored rest stop for weary travelers. Jackson laughed at what passed as a "river" in these parts. "Blazes! Why this ain't nothing but a crick!" He knew that rivers were based on length, but after seeing the Ohio River, one had to find the term funny.  
  
"I'm sure the boys in the West who have transversed the mighty Mississippi call the Ohio a crick," Peter mused.

* * *

  
  
After they had a meal of rabbits that they had snared earlier, the three of them grew quiet, and made their beds for the night. It wasn't long before Jackson was out like a light: Oliver tugged Peter's hand.  
  
"I can't sleep. Let's go down to the ford and have a swim. Plus we can scrub off."  
  
Peter assessed the request for a moment, looked over at the snoring Lee, and shook his head in agreement.  
  
When they reached the shoreline, the previously reticent Oliver had lost all inhibition. Her clothes were all flung off in every direction, and she dove into the cool water, as Peter clumsily tried to even get his brogans off. She stood in the water and whistled as he stripped down to his drawers. Before he continued, he ordered, "Turn your head."  
  
"Ain't nothing I've never seen before! And I've seen plenty of them…" she teased, as the words were drawn out with emphasis. "Yeah, but that's before I knew you didn't have the same gear!" he quipped. "Fine," Oliver rolled her eyes, and turned her back so he could strip to nothing but skin.  
  
As they bathed, Peter tried desperately to avert his eyes. But she wasn't having any of it.  
  
"Bet you haven't seen plenty of these," the young woman verbally tantalized, as she rubbed her breasts with some soap.  
  
It became readily apparent to him that this was more than innocent dip to cool off and to get clean.  
  
"That's a bet that you don't want to make, sweetheart," the increasingly uncomfortable pard uttered with difficulty, his entire body in near paralysis, except for one part that was slightly trembling; a betrayal to his more honorable thoughts. The devil on the shoulder of a horny man often had great odds of winning the battle for his mind.  
  
She came up to him with an embrace that he accepted, and before he knew it, she was vigorously kissing him. At first, he was all right with reciprocating… her hot breathe poured into him and only stoked his fire, while it served to further fog his logical mind.  
  
"We can't do this…" he husked as he pulled away from the lip-lock.  
  
"If you're worried; you can't get me with child, right? You had mentioned before that you never had any children because your seed won't grow."  
  
"No. I'm more than old enough to be your father…"  
  
"There are lots of girls my age who dally older gents. Surely you know that? You can't say that you don't want to. I've seen how you look at me. And I know that you know how I look at you. Besides, your little man has betrayed you, because he's standing at attention waiting for orders…"  
  
She adjusted herself around his waist, found what she aiming for, and took him in slowly, as he did nothing to stop the action. His knees and legs nearly buckled. The widowed man hadn't engaged in any kind of relations since he had lost Olivia, and fully never expected to. The intensity of her slow movements against him was exquisite… his ancient instincts were getting the best of him.  
  
This transformed the reluctance, and caused him to hold onto her hips, as he met her thrust-for-thrust for a few minutes. There was nothing but the sound of the water giving way as they moved, their breathing, and a chorus of peepers. Spring mating rituals were in full force…  
  
He carried her up to the banks along the stream, and placed her down on the grass. Nibbles along her taut belly and lapping suckles at her breasts made her sigh in delight, as her center quivered against him. The flesh of her youthful body contrasted with his time and battle worn visage. Peter couldn't help but grunt as his lover's body was not so yielding to the movements of his more than adequate member. Between the squeezes of his companion's legs and heals urging him forward, her verbal encouragement, and the resistance against him, there wasn't hope for the encounter to be too long.  
  
After an intense, quaking wave marked by muted groans, he suddenly held still against her, head buried against the side of her neck. The younger lover held him tight, not caring about his weight. After he caught his breath, he pulled himself up on his elbows, his eyes near closed. A betraying, unmasculine tear fell from his nose and onto her bare chest.  
  
"Are, you OK?"  
  
"Very much so. Sweet tears, dear." He rolled over onto his back and his lips upturned into a satisfied smile. Nothing but them, lying au natural together on a moonlit spring night. This was good. After all he had suffered; this simple night had brought him great joy.  
  
Here, with her in his arms, he was happy. Not just a superficial contentment experienced because of his climax and physical release: This was a euphoria he had not felt since the night before Olivia had died.

* * *

  
  
_The injuries he had experienced from one of the End of Dayer's light bombs had shaken her up. If he had been just a few feet closer to the blast's epicenter… She had clung to him then like there was no tomorrow, and they made love like that was the case, too. She had whispered into his ear a mournful "I can't lose you, too," not knowing that this night would be HER last._   
  
_It was Peter who was left to be lost, and he blamed himself for the events that set it all up. He wanted to protect her from his showdown with his recluse father, who was hell-bent to achieve retribution. Peter had lost all of the hate in his heart after he had used the machine to destroy his universe of birth. He wanted peace with his father. The son's noble intentions were met with an outcome of treachery… He couldn't have known what Walternate's deceptive plan was. He only wanted to say he was sorry… But there was no forgiveness for him, although when in truth, it was his father who led to the awful choice his son felt compelled to make. That day was truly the day he died, when his universe—Olivia—was destroyed. And all he could do was break down and whimper with a repeated mantra of "I'm so sorry…" when he had to I.D. her body at the morgue._

* * *

  
  
This realization frightened him. He had been prepared to die if it came down to it. What if he made it through this cruel war? Would it be wrong to form a relationship with another who likely held the soul of the one he had lost? That temptation was very strong. To have something to live for made Peter nervous; because, that also meant the potential for loss, yet again…  
  
They could leave… desert…. And make a life together. Peter was an expert at slipping away, undetected. He could spend the remainder of his days… content.  
  
This was why he had ignored her initial slight advances. It was far easier to remain numb and not to grow attached to anyone.  
  
But if she was in essence, Olivia, this stance was impossible.  
  
 _This is Hell. I have been tempted, and I have failed by giving in._  
  
 _I wanted her, and now I basically have her… I know this isn't going to end well… Stop it now, you fool._

* * *

  
  
"I was lying, you know," the youth muttered as she traced patterns across a small scar where shrapnel had scraped his side.  
  
"About?"  
  
"I haven't seen a lot of them… she admitted with a sheepish grin, and a bit of added redness to her cheeks. "Well, not in that way… In fact, you're the only man I've ever known."  
  
Her cryptic manner of telling him that he was her first registered right off the bat to him. But for some reason, he felt a slight sense of shame.  
  
"I figured as much… so that explains why we're kind of a snug fit…"  
  
Cue a wily grin to disguise the conflicting thoughts in his head.  
  
After few quiet minutes, the sound of a soft question barely registered in her ears.  
  
"Why me?"  
  
The young woman rolled over to face her companion, and she flashed a quizzical look.  
  
"I mean… Why did you decide that it would be me? An old and sterile widower? Why not Jackson? He is your age."  
  
An amused, questioning snort resulted, and a reply: "Well, for one thing, he thinks I am a man, so that kind of isn't a deal maker."  
  
"Bull. I'm not so sure about that… I think he has the same suspicions that I did. I bet if you told him, he wouldn't be surprised, and he wouldn't turn you in."  
  
"What are you going to do with a 52 year old man? Let's do some math, honey… I am THIRTY years your senior. If we manage to get through this, both alive, and in one piece… I may have at best, ten, maybe fifteen or so years to live. That leaves you in your thirties or forties when I die. It's hard to be a childless widow at that age, and that's what you'd be. We could have no children. And you may say that doesn't matter now, but it will. You will want them, and I cannot provide them. That's no life for a woman like you, sweetheart."  
  
"You are a remarkable man, Peter. I can't explain it. Ever since I met you and first shook your hand, I have had awkward feelings. When you took care of me, you saved my life. You are kind at heart and as smart as a whip. Believe it or not, I know that beneath the dirt and scruff is a handsome man. I'm convinced that you joined the army in order to achieve some sort of noble self-destruction. I don't think your murdered wife would have wanted you to just give up; in fact, she'd probably be more than a wee bit disappointed."  
  
 _Shit. That is so Olivia…_  
  
"You don't know a lot about me. You seem to assume that I joined this three-ring spectacle out of boredom. Well…nothing can be further from the truth. I've held this persona for years before the war. I've worked alongside men doing the hardest of labor in warehouses and on riverboats. I've earned respect. I can make money honorably if I wear pants. Both of these things are not readily available to women. And my family needed all that I could earn."  
  
"Family?"  
  
"I have a mother, and several younger siblings. Our father died from a foundry accident, and mom married a man who had to be possessed by the devil. He tried to hurt me…but I ran away. I got some gent's clothes and went to work. The recruiting officer was in town that same day you joined up. When I saw the bounty for marking my name on the muster roll, I knew it would help my family escape. They are long gone from Ohio—out to California. I may never see them again, Pete; however, I faithfully send mother most of my pay."  
  
 _Definitely like Olivia…_  
  
"Besides, did I say that this was any more than just a fuck out of curiosity and the desire to not die a virgin?"  
  
Peter shook his head and sniggered, "Oh, you are not telling the truth again. How about an encore?" His lips took hers into a heated exchange, and she seemed perfectly fine with a repeat performance.

* * *

  
  
He heard some rustling in the brush that led up to their camp on the hillside, which caused him to immediately go into fight mode.  
  
 _We were not alone tonight._


	8. Who Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is very violent, and it involves a near rape situation. Peter has lost it because of this and has gone VERY dark. Thought a warning was in order...

 

Oliver was alarmed by her recent mate's sudden reactions.

"Sh… get your clothes on," Peter whispered.

Peter only managed to get into his trousers when three horsemen emerged from the woods. They looked like they had been riding hard for a long time; with ragged, dust covered clothes, thin horses, and… weapons.

"Evening there, gents. It's a nice spot to get some water, if you're thirsty," he offered as he assessed the situation.

One of the men smiled a yellow and non-genuine snaggle-toothed grin, as the two others dismounted.

"Oh, we're thirsty, all right…"

That's when Peter realized that the man had a deep, Southern accent, and that he and his fellows were all wearing some cast-off bits of Confederate uniforms.

_Guerillas. Shit. And the worst case scenario of being caught with my pants down._

Oliver noticed as well, and before they could run, carbines were pointed at them. The two of them were trapped.

"…for Federal blood. You, the big fella. Get over there…" He pointed to Peter, as a weasely looking young fella grabbed him and tied his hand together.

The wanna-be Rebel officer dusted himself off, as he spoke.

"At first we thought we came across two blue-bellies buggering, but imagine our surprise to find out that you were breeding a Yankee bitch." The taller man, with long hair and a Confederate frock coat, laughed.

"I figure we might be able to salvage the situation. Maybe we should try to put a Southern babe in her belly, eh, boys?" This leader of the group was already unbuttoning the fly to his trousers.

Peter's whole heart sank into the depths of his stomach, and felt like it was being digested away into pieces, only to melt into a slurry of pain. A razor-sharp knife was held to his stubbled throat, and it glimmered in the light of the moon, with just a slight enough amount of pressure to pierce his skin. He could feel the blood droplets as they slid down the column of his neck, and soaked into his chest hair. As such, there wasn't much he could manage to prevent what these men were going to do to poor Oliver. Here he was, helpless yet again… His whole body trembled with fear… not for himself, but for her. Thoughts ran across his mind about trying to do something anyway, because having his throat slit was a better option than standing by helplessly while witnessing his friend being ravaged by these savages. It was obvious that they would kill him anyway.

Her eyes pleaded with him, and tears ran down her face... He too, also had streams, and his breath had gone raggedly shallow. It was as if he was being squeezed by a python.

"Should we kill him?"

"No. Make him watch his secret garden here get plowed by a real man. Tie him up against a tree, and we'll use the rope to hang him when we're done."

Weasel-man kicked Peter in the stomach hard, and then used some thin rope to bind him.

The weasel man and a possum-looking fellow held Oliver down, as the self-appointed "colonel" proceeded to rudely massage her breasts and thighs.

Out of the night air, a shot rang, and the man fell forward onto Oliver, shot through the back of his head. The other two quickly jumped up, looking for the source of the gunshots. Oliver scrambled to Peter and started to untie him, as her companion wildly looked around, scanning for their benefactor.

Crack! Crack!

Two more shots rang out, and both men went down.

Oliver clutched Peter tightly, and the both of them sat together, too stunned to move.

A familiar moonlit form came running out of the wood line.

Jackson had been the one who had fired the shots, evident from the revolving pistol he carried.

"Corn! Are you both all right?!"

The other man belted a guffaw in relief. "I was wondering when you'd wake the Hell up. Thanks... I didn't know you had a pistol? And damn, son! For a guy with glasses, you're a good shot!"

"It's alright. I owed you big for Gettysburg. Consider this some blood debt cleared. Apparently, I didn't know a lot of things, either. Or at least wouldn't allow myself to believe a hunch. You've both got some explaining to do," he said as his eyes met Oliver's with an accusing stare.

One of the men on the ground groaned, still alive, as Jackson's shot was a flesh wound, and had only knocked the man out cold on the ground.

Peter's jovial and indebted attitude quickly flashed to the complete opposite. He tramped up to the cowering man, who was cursing in agony.

"I am of half a mind to kill you, you low-life filth! But I think I'd rather cut off that cock you were crowing about using to hurt to my friend here, and then stuff it down your pie hole!" The blade that had been at his throat was edged very close to the wounded guerilla's crotch to emphasize a point. That, and Peter's crazed stare, made the man tremble.

Some very dark feelings came up from a long-sealed-off well in Peter's soul. His walls that had solidly formed against this blackness were breached with little effort, almost as if the separation was just a sheer veil. This man had dared to hurt the one thing he cared about in this world.

Time to toy with him. Terrorizing him like he had done to us will be much more fun than just killing him.

"Or maybe I should "bugger" that skinny, hairy ass of yours without getting any input from you as to whether or not you'd actually like to participate? Turnabout's fair play, after all... I guarantee that you'll scream for mercy when I shove what I have, all up in you…" He growled and grabbed his crotch as if to prove the point. Then, he turned to unbutton his fly, which made the man try to move futilely backwards on his back, away from his enraged, would-be assailant.

"But ya' know, I'm kinda deaf, and may not hear you… So I may have to be kind of rougher about it to make you louder." He stroked himself at length in full view of their captive, which realistically created the illusion that he meant business.

The could-be torturer stopped, and pushed his never-intended punishment rod back underneath the fabric of his drawers, and re-buttoned his fly.

"Unlike you, I was raised better than that by my Irish mother. Who also taught me a healthy respect for women! And besides…" he sniffed with a haughty flip of his hand. "I'd never be able to wash the filth off… "

He hawked loudly in his throat and spat the contents on the man.

"So…"

Peter walked a slight circle around the scared scum, and stared down at him; his once mid-blue eyes were as dark as the depths of the sea.

"Instead…"

Peter launched back his leg and kicked the man's genitalia as hard as he could, much like punting a football, which sent the receiver howling in pain. The angered man, started to pull his leg back for another assault; but, Oliver grabbed him, and pleaded for him to stop. He pushed her away, and stood up straight.

He scratched his head in a mock state of contemplation, and a creepy, malicious grin developed. "I know. Why don't we hang you instead?" he threatened as he picked up the rope that had bound him in order to fashion a noose.

But, having had enough of this game, he hollered for them to put the man on one of the horses, and they tied him to the animal. They did the same with the dead men. Jackson spooked the horses off with a gunshot, and they were off, with pretty vile care packages for whoever came across them.

"I've never seen you like that…" Oliver's concerned face looked over Peter, almost as if he were a stranger.

"They do call me 'Mad Pete.' Or did you willfully ignore that? No one hurts the people I care about and gets away with it. You don't know me, sweetheart."

Her face was not one of gratitude; instead, she looked very disappointed; almost like a child who had just found out that Santa was a lie.

"You know, Peter… You're right. We don't know each other…"

"What the Hell, woman? They tried to rape you, and would have killed us, only to leave our mutilated bodies for poor Jackson to discover! Or the wild hogs!"

"That's not the point, Peter. To see that kind of anger rise from you… It makes me wonder just what exactly are you capable of? Where do you draw the line? At what point do you cross? You obviously carry a lot of unfettered hate in your heart. I have no idea where that all came from, and it scares me."

The weary, stressed man was not in the mood for this bickering about morality, especially because he felt lucky to be alive and that she was unhurt.

"This is a WAR. And we are SOLDIERS. We KILL. Hesitation could cost us; you KNOW that… " The words were hissed in a low, measured tone, as he tried not to yell at her.

"Your mindset is distorted. We, as of a few days ago, are not acting as soldiers. They—even acting as guerillas—are CIVILIANS. You can't go wild with rage like a demon. That makes you just as bad as they are. That was not hesitation in a life-or-death situation. That was being fully aware of what you were doing; playing quite intentional mind games; like a cat with a mouse.

"Before this war ends, you naïve child, the distinction between 'soldier' and 'civilian' will be blurred. What happened to us tonight will become the norm across this nation. The brutality of humanity will raise a notch due to this war. There's no way to stop it; it will come to pass."

"You tell me your past, but I get the feeling that there is a lot being omitted from it. Some pretty serious shit, too. A simple educated engineer from Boston doesn't develop a demented, sadistic sense of retribution like you have, even if his wife was murdered. He doesn't throw away a lucrative career to join the damned infantry. Peter, you should be building bridges, pontoon boats, hospitals, and forts! You should be designing weapons for Christ's sake! It makes absolutely no sense for you to be a rifleman. None!"

"Oh, yes. I've been told on countless occasions how I have squandered my education and intellect. So, this judgment doesn't surprise me. And maybe it is a good thing that you find out that my moral lines—like those of most rational people—are drawn in the sand!"

The woman scoffed, "I am not judging you. This is the truth, and that makes you squirm. Something you've been trying to outrun. Because you don't live by a standard compass… You've been tossed about as a consequence. God, you are so condescending!"

Peter surrendered with exhaustion, and a tremendous pressure headache had taken hold. His weary body slumped down in the dirt beside their tent, and his eyes fell to looking at his feet because the shame had set in; much like it always did when he went vicious like this. He then looked back up to Oliver who sat several feet away; her arms were around her knees. Jackson looked back and forth between the two, and was obviously quite uncomfortable to be witnessing what amounted to a lover's spat.

"Could you two please tell me what in the cotton-picking blue blazes has been going on under my nose? And for how long?"

Peter and Oliver came clean about the discovery of her real identity, although like Peter had thought, Jackson pretty much had known all along.

When it was all said and done, they agreed to try and get some sleep, but one of them would always keep guard in case there were more rattlers out in the bush.

Peter agreed to be the first on watch, and before Oliver stepped into their tent, he stopped her and cupped her cheek. Her eyes averted from his at first, but his kept piercing into her, so she eventually looked at him.

"I'm sorry, he whispered softly. With a sigh, he admitted, "I wish that I could tell you everything…" Looking down, he shook his head, and could only manage, "But I can't…"

His hand dropped from her face and he turned his back, not sure what they would be to each other the next day.


	9. Stay Calm and Carry On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath

 

The sun rose a little too early for the two worn-out soldiers holed up in the small tent.

One groaned, muttered something incomprehensible, and pulled a blanket up to act a shield from the cursed light.

One wandered outside to take care of nature's call, and to save himself some morning embarrassment. Though he thought it odd for him to have a sudden sense of modesty…

_Oliver is still the same person. Why does it matter now?_

As he surveyed the breathtaking landscape of West Virginia, he felt a sense of gratitude to be alive to witness it on this day, and that his friends were also spared from a horrible fate from the prior evening.

_If I hadn't woke up and become curious enough to wander down to find them, and if I had left, instead of watching them, when they were… I may have never noticed the glint on the other side of the ford clearing that had revealed those guerillas._

_Wait a moment… We were supposed to each go on watch for a few hours, and Peter has not come back… Damn it! What if the scoundrels had friends? They could have mutilated him, and here we are all nice and cozy!_

He freaked out and shook the sleeping form back inside their shelter.

"What! Jackson! Quit!"

"It's daybreak, and Peter hasn't come back..."

Oliver's thoughts, even in her abrupt state of waking, instantly went to the same conclusion as Jackson's.

They ran over to an overlook to see if they could survey the ground below. Each released a synced sigh of relief when they saw Peter sitting near the river bank, still alive and awake; but, most likely, not well.

"I don't know about you, but I am famished. I'm going to make us some breakfast," Jackson announced. "A little bacon, oats and coffee should get us ready."

"I'll help you, and then I'll go down to retrieve the stubborn, old ass."

As they built a fire, and prepared the foods, there was a bit of an air of awkwardness. They hadn't really discussed the reality of who Oliver really was.

"So, about Pete… Are you sweet on him? Jackson queried with a school boy's teasing tone, and an arched eyebrow.

Oliver tried to silence an unbecoming, girlish laugh… _I've never giggled in front of him!_

"Ah, now. A lady doesn't kiss and tell, Lee!"

The young man returned to working quietly for a while. "He's a good man. You know that. A little rough around the edges, but I suspect that someday we'll find out what makes him tick."

"I hope so… I do think that I love him. I was just so afraid last night… and to see him… acting like that. It was a shock."

Jackson's heart sank upon the admission of her feelings, but he needed to know this for certain. "We were all shocked last night. Things should be better now. I'll go get him."

Oliver stood up and placed her hand on his shoulder, motioning him to stay put.

"No, I need to speak with him."

Peter sat on a large, smooth rock by the river bank, with his legs outstretched, much like a turtle enjoying the warmth of the sun. He alternated between looking at the sky, the river, and something that he held in his hands.

_All I have to do is jump in, and give up._

His head turned when he heard Oliver's steps padding behind him. He kicked an empty bottle of corn alcohol over the side of the rock, and it landed in the lazy river, only to float away; with flips, and tosses, and turns—much like he wanted to do.

"Morning, Pete! Why have you been up all night? Jackson's got some food almost ready. Bacon, oats and coffee." She added a bit of a tummy rub for some emphasis. "That'll make you feel better. Then you need to sleep for a few hours. You can't walk like this."

Peter quickly put the picture case in his pocket, but Oliver had a hunch about what he was peering at.

"What was her name?"

Peter's eye closed and his eye brows reached upwards as his brow smoothed out. A deep breath was taken, and then he slowly exhaled, opened his eyes, and whispered—the single word choked by soft tears.

"Olivia."

Oliver placed her hand up to her mouth at this revelation. No wonder this poor man was as confused as drunken sailor in a land maze. It had to be hard to be with a woman who had the exact same birth-name as his beloved, lost wife.

"You wanted to know more about me… I left my old life behind because I had the chance to bring her back. Honestly, I thought I'd be dead by now. I can't go into details, but you have to believe me. By this end of this, I hope that the efforts were worth it… But in a small way, I do have her back..."

_'Like the coldest winter chill – Heaven beside you – Hell within.'_

_Where did that come from? A song? I can't remember._

Oliver took notice of how much effort it took for him to speak.

"What do you mean by that?" When she got closer to him to help him up, the sharp fume-stench of moonshine almost bowled her over. He never imbibed any alcohol since she had known him.

Peter shook his head, and was still slightly inebriated, which made his constant guard fall. He huffed, "You, my dear, are the spitting image of her. I think you have her… soul…," the last line, slurred and drawn out.

Oliver didn't press any further… sensing that if she pushed him to talk, he'd say something that would be regretted later, and as such, he would never forgive her. "You are obviously sleep-deprived to lunacy. And bully for you, getting all drunk… Come on, you old cuss. Get some food and sleep."

Peter slept for six hours, and he was happy that he had no dreams. He awoke alone, and with considerable stiffness. The side of his throat itched where it had been scratched open by a dirty knife blade. Thankfully, he had not consumed all of his alcohol, so he used a handkerchief soaked in some to wipe his neck clean. When he emerged from the tent, all of the group's other gear was already packed, and his two friends showed off some squirrel and rabbit they had caught to sustain them. After one heck of a night, the three friends set out for a rail depot about 50 miles away. Then back to Ohio—a whole different world.

"Why in Hades did we send off those horses? Jackson whined.

_Why, indeed._

"Oh, so now you wish you had joined the cavalry?" Peter teased, as he threw the palm of his hand to his face and shook his head.

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Song lyric is from "Heaven Beside You" – Alice in Chains


	10. Home

The Bluegrass state was Federal territory at this time; but, as evidenced by the guerillas, they had to keep on their toes. Some civilians were still not keen on being included in the Free States. However, the train ride back to Ohio was uneventful for the three soldiers. Their trip went by quickly, as civilians were constantly asking them about the war.

Being free of the constraints of army life was like a whole different reality. One got so used to having his life tightly scheduled with no say in the matter. Simple things seemed unreal at first. Even being in civil society again took some adjustments.

Mr. Lee could not believe his eyes when he met the three veterans at the train station. He had last seen his son when he had left with Peter for Camp Chase, a little over two years ago. The father had overcome a recent bout with a bad cough that wouldn't go away, much to Jackson's relief. Peter had told the younger man to recommend some things to his father when Jackson had written a letter home. Apparently, it worked.

A hand was extended to Peter after the father had his joyful reunion with his son.

"Sergeant Bishop, huh? You just might become an officer, Peter," he winked.

Peter returned with a firm shake. "Yes… I was forced in the NCO ranks after Gettysburg."

"For what you did for my son?"

Peter nodded his head.

"Thank you for all that you have done. When the war is over, I think you might just have a political career ahead of you. If you wanted to go that route, I'd do my best to support you."

Lee clasped his hands together. "Well, let's head home; shall we?" The three soldiers seated themselves into his wagon.

"You're all heroes. I have a pile of invitations for socials and dances, so I hope you fellas have time on your cards to say hello to some ladies. He smiled, and nudged Jackson. But we are having a celebration dance this weekend, in your honor."

The truth of the matter was that the three of them wanted to sleep… And to eat everything put in front of them.

* * *

 

Everyone at the Lee farm was ready to meet them when they arrived.

"Jackson has his bedroom. Peter and Oliver can have the guest room. I'm pretty sure it won't be too much of an inconvenience for two soldiers to share a large feather bed? The old man laughed, as he knew what it was like in war. You slept in dog piles if you had to.

Peter gave Oliver a knowing look…

_A bed! It will take everything to be quiet!_

* * *

 

At a sumptuous dinner that night, the three felt quite gluttonous. To top it all off was pecan pie. Peter savored the first morsel of the pie as if it was ambrosia from the gods. _This is living._

Jackson looked like he had little tears in his eyes from happiness, and Oliver had nearly devoured her slice before the two men had put their forks in for a second bite.

* * *

 

Well rested; they were ready for the weekend fun.

Each of them was dressed in their formal uniforms, including tailored frock coats. They had replaced their worn-out and shoddy government brogans with brand new pairs that Mr. Lee had purchased from a local shoemaker. The shirts beneath their coats weren't the scratchy wool flannel issue shirts, but were made of fine linen—complemented with well-made vests. Peter wore a paisley cravat and had white gloves to top off his attire. As a sergeant, he had a non-commissioned officer sash and sword. His pocket watch was polished and it fit smartly in the watch pocket of his pressed trousers. For the occasion, he had visited the barber in order to achieve a close shave. His body had been bathed in a tub, using actual hot water… so very much missed.

He hardly recognized himself when he looked in a mirror, and Oliver looked like she wanted to drag him off and have her way with him.

The gathering on the Lee farm was attended by many of the locals and some of the town's politicians. Peter's head spun at all of the questions he was asked about the war, and his thoughts on the whole mess. He had to be careful to not accidentally spew something that these men would have no knowledge of. The men of the town took a liking to him and his intelligence, and job offers galore poured out for him to choose from after the war was over.

_Do these men not know that I was just a hand on this very farm a little more than two years ago? If one had seen me then, he wouldn't have offered me so much as a hello._

He excused himself to get a breather. A large, happy smile formed as the mentor observed all of the attention that Jackson was getting from the ladies. Peter had to admit, that he was a handsome young man. If he was a lady, he'd definitely try to have a crack at that. If it wasn't for Oliver, he may have tried to anyway… Moral lines drawn in the sand, indeed…

He scanned for Oliver, who had gone off to obtain some root beer for them, and he found her surrounded by a few ladies of her own. The grin on his face had to be amusing, as he watched her skillfully deceive the poor girls. Each was disappointed to find out that "he" was attached to someone already. She was very good at bluffing. Peter walked up to the group, to rescue his friend. A few of the ladies, some no more than sixteen, started to work their charm on him. Oliver's slick and suave demeanor suddenly started to turn a bit green…

"Oh, no. You don't want this old widower, ladies. He's due for the glue factory any day now," she laughed.

 _This is priceless_ … Peter thought.

The girls were obviously not deterred by the disclaimer, and one young one added, "I don't know… You may be jealous. I think he's quite handsome, and I love his accent. I also heard that he's going to run for Congress after the war."

Oliver looked at him, her surprised eyes saying, _I didn't know this?!_

Peter shrugged his shoulders and feigned innocence. In any case, he wasn't going to fall into anyone's gold-digging vagenda…

The band started to play, signaling it was time for the dance to commence.

Peter just sat for a moment as he enjoyed the music. Pure bliss radiated from him.

"Oliver, this is what I miss so much. Beautiful music that isn't a fife and drum…"

The three soldiers were popular dance partners. Oliver noticed Peter's look of longing every time they passed one another… The desire she felt was killing her.

* * *

 

Worn out from the night's festivities, the pair had enough of social activities and gratefully retired to their quarters for a more intimate atmosphere.

There was a long box on the bed.

"Open it, Peter…"

He popped off the lid and pulled some protective paper aside; inside, was a beautiful purple dress.

"Hm… OK… This is nice."

She gently took it from him and went behind a screen in order to put it on. After she emerged, she took his hand to help him rise from the bed. He was speechless.

"Just once, I'd like you to see me as I really am; short hair aside… I hope that you approve."

"Oliv… Olivia…" The word felt so sweet on his tongue, and she loved the way he said it, a little breathlessly, and with reverence.

"You are stunning, sweetheart. But I have always seen you for who you are…"

She took him by his arms and proceeded to lead him in a dance. "Sorry we don't have music, but I figured you wouldn't mind this at all…"

In reply, he hummed an appropriate slow tune. The love he felt was overwhelming his senses.

"Jackson's father has a piano, I noticed. I can play for you before we have to go."

"Peter… I would cherish that so very much."

He took her up into his arms, and they both kissed one another, unable to get enough of each other. The lovers dropped back onto the bed.

The dress did not stay on long…


	11. Illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's Nothingman...

It was still before dawn, and nearly pitch dark, when he woke up. The feeling of his body was like being in a cloud. The softness that he had never really noticed before in his life was heavenly, as it had been denied for so long. Blissful feelings enveloped him, and just for a few moments, he snuggled his head back into the down pillow that was supporting it. Normal awareness would take a few minutes to return to him, and he smiled what was likely a goofy grin at the remembrance of last night. He rolled over, and his gaze drifted on the woman beside him, who was completely covered with the thin baby blue cotton knit blanket that they both shared.

Sensing his wakeful state, she rolled over, as she had been awake for just a little while.

They simply looked at one another for a few minutes, and then she moved closer his warm body, and nuzzled into him like an affectionate kitten. The happy lover held her, as they enjoyed watching the sunlight as it became brighter in the room. A solider always appreciates a new sunrise, but today, they appreciated it for more than it signaling just mere survival. A soldier doesn't hope – he merely survives. On this morning, it was a sign of hope for the two souls who had been knocking on heaven's door for two years. At that time, they could pretend that they were something else.

"I could get used to this," she murmured into his chest, and this caused his breath to seize for a moment. These same exact words; in the same exact situation; in a time that may never really happen; echoed in his head.

"Sorry, sweetness, but I have to go attend to nature. You know how that goes…" He got out of bed and started to stretch.

Oliver watched transfixed as she took in his nude form, from every angle, as he moved. For an older man, he was still quite attractive and very fit. She was getting to know every little detail about his body, including the birth mark on his belly, and the patterns of light hair that trailed from his chest down to his manhood, which was also half awake. He slipped on a clean pair of drawers and an undershirt, gave her one more good morning smile, and then made his way down the stairs.

* * *

 

 

Lee was already up, in preparation for breakfast. There was a lot of work to be done today, and Peter had offered to help, but the farmer would not hear of it. They were guests, and could do as they pleased while they stayed in his home.

After he had finished his morning business, he slipped into the kitchen and asked for some hot water from the ladies who worked for the family. Bathing was an indulgence that he was going to savor at every opportunity. And he really needed to scour after last night's exertion... After he had scrubbed every bit of himself, he toweled the dripping remnants away. This would be the second time that he looked into a mirror on this trip, but this time was devoted to an overall status check of his outward anatomy. They had only been on furlough for less than 2 weeks, but he had gained considerable weight. It wasn't a source of embarrassment for him to take off his shirt. In his youth, he had the body of a swimmer for the most part, but always the slightest bit of belly. He wasn't one for body building, as he liked to just look like a regular, healthy guy. He had noticed that Oliver's body was certainly more supple since… the night at the ford.

The roughness and callousness of his hands was still there. It would take much more time for that to heal, and it probably wouldn't before they had to leave to return to the army. Some things were permanent, like the scars that adorned him. He had a few marks from his time as a young idiot, but these were… a bit more sinister; badges that reminded him of just how close he came to oblivion. A scrape from spent shrapnel here, a laceration from a fall down a jagged, rocky hillside, there… A place in his leg where he was stuck in the flesh by a knife while fighting hand-to-hand… Peter shook his head at these terrible reminders and made haste to cover them up with clothing once more. Afterwards, the thoughtful side of him made sure that a bath was drawn for his lover.

An urge hit him, and he decided to run with it. He explained to Jackson that he needed some time alone, and to tell Oliver not to worry, as it wasn't anything either of them did. Peter just needed to some time to be with himself.

* * *

 

He caught a ride into town, so that he could just remember what it felt like to be human again. The near-wild-man actually missed taking part in activities that were once considered mundane. Thoughts ran through the wanderer's mind as he observed the people of the town at work. People with jobs and families. A normal life. There weren't many young men here, as the war had consumed a fair number of them by this time. So, maybe things weren't as normal as they seemed for many of the folks he came across. Ever astute and empathic, Peter thought about how many of them had lost a loved one, but simply had to go on living. Knowing how difficult that can be…

* * *

 

In the afternoon, he sat outside of a small bakery and enjoyed a piece of gingerbread cake. Across the way from him were a young woman and a small child in a pram. Peter smiled at the little one and made faces that amused the child. After a few minutes, the baby fell asleep and the lady came over to speak with him.

"Hello, I couldn't help it; but, I needed to speak with you, if that is all right?"

Peter offered a seat and agreed, "But of course, ma'am."

"You're a soldier, correct?"

A simple nod of the head.

"What is your unit?"

Peter told her, and the answer made her weep.

"Oh… Um… Here, I'm sorry if I upset you."

"It's all right… You must have served in the same company as my fiancé, who was killed at Antietam."

"What was his name?"

"James Foster."

Peter swallowed his coffee very hard upon hearing the name.

"Yes, ma'am, I did. He was my mess-mate. An honorable soldier."

"May I have your name, sir?"

"I am Peter Bishop."

"You! You wrote to me and sent me his things…" She got up next to the surprised man and squeezed him into a hug. "Thank you, for taking a moment to do that for me. Receiving those things meant the world to me and to his parents."

"You're welcome… The boy there? I don't mean to be presumptuous, but is he?"

"Yes… He is James Simon Foster II…"

Peter sensed her shame, as technically the baby was a bastard. His heart hurt that this poor boy would not know his father. "Don't worry. I'm not one to judge love."

They spoke for a little bit longer, and Peter managed to sketch some information on a piece of butcher's paper that explained where he had buried Foster. She and his family hoped to retrieve his remains to bring him back home for burial in a family cemetery.

They said their goodbyes, and he promised that he would check on her and the child after the war was over… if he made it…

This exchange sent the pondering man into a whirlwind of reminiscing; plus, an analysis of his current situation and hopes for the future. He knew that he couldn't return to this place to be any kind of public figure. How much disappointment that would create for Mr. Lee, who had compared the hopeful return of the soldiers to that of Roman centurions – they would become the leaders of a new civilian paradigm in a healing country.

Then there was the issue with Oliver… He supposed that if she was hell-bent on marrying him, he would allow for other ways for her to have children… if it made her happy.

He settled on being a civil mechanic, although he would have to make absolutely certain that he didn't accidentally "make" any new advances.

Then he laughed to himself, as a single tear slid down his stubbled cheek.

_You know this is all an illusion. You can be nothing._

* * *

 

_Once divided...nothing left to subtract..._   
_Some words when spoken...can't be taken back..._   
_Walks on his own...with thoughts he can't help thinking..._   
_Future's above...but in the past he's slow and sinking..._   
_Caught a bolt 'a lightnin'...cursed the day he let it go..._   
_Nothingman..._

_Isn't it something?_   
_Nothingman..._

_She once believed...in every story he had to tell..._   
_One day she stiffened...took the other side..._   
_Empty stares...from each corner of a shared prison cell..._   
_One just escapes...one's left inside the well..._   
_And he who forgets...will be destined to remember..._

("Nothingman" – Pearl Jam)


	12. Sacrifices for Our Future

**The Wilderness- May, 1864**

The month prior to this week was like a dream to him. Those sweet, sweet days of a life he could live, teased the strained man's consciousness. He and Oliver had almost slipped up a few times, and Peter got the feeling that Mr. Lee knew the truth, but just didn't say anything due to the friendship between them. Jackson said that his father had mentioned to him that he knew the Lewis family, and that they had a daughter named Olivia…

They had to hurry back to their regiment, as it had been involved in some heavy fighting while they were gone. They came back to an even more pared down force. Peter was made the Orderly sergeant of their company, which was a lot more responsibility than he ever wanted to take here. He quickly learned the necessary commands and orders that he would be expected to give.

Peter knew he was marching straight into hellfire. He knew exactly how this battle played out, as it was one of the most brutal of the war. Shivers fell down his spine upon the realization of almost certainty that this regiment was one that suffered casualties upwards to the rate of 60 – 75 percent. The chances of he, Jackson and Oliver all surviving this oncoming storm, were very slim.

After two years of dealing with the deaths of some of the others he had grown to care for; he, for the most part, had been indifferent to his own. He did fear death, like any animal does, but if it came down to it, it could have him. But then he had to go and find a reason to get through this madness… Peter wasn't prepared to finally lie down and let fate have its way with him.

He wasn't sure if his journey to prepare the machine had been worth it; if it would be found in a new time loop he was attempting to set-up. Hopefully, the new iteration of him who would be born over a hundred years from now would do the right thing. Both universes would be spared, and more importantly, precious Olivia would live.

They could have that "tribe of Bishops" they had discussed so many times. A normal and long life for the both of them… A golden sunset for Walter… A chance for Astrid to have a life outside of faithfully trying to save the universe with them… He earnestly prayed that this would be so. His fate in this lifetime seemed to be sealed, and the string was primed to be cut, as much had he hoped for another outcome.

His day-dream was rudely interrupted by Captain Francis's barking orders to halt.

He looked down a few ranks, at his men. He looked over at Oliver, who was clearly tired. They all were. The man-out-of-time so much regretted not being able to tell them that the war would be over in less than a year. But he also had decided it was a blessing for them to NOT know. This upcoming year would be a bloodbath, between Grant's full-out assault on the Army of Northern Virginia, and Sherman's Western Federals destructive march to the sea. Total War on solider and civilian alike… The socioeconomic repercussions of this conflict and the shaky resolution would echo 150 years later, and beyond.

Peter came to the conclusion that if tomorrow was his day to die; well, he was going to go out fighting.

Before, when he entered a battle, he had felt fear. "Fear is the mind killer. I will face my fear," he muttered to himself, a mantra from a book that didn't exist in these times. Today, there was nothing but acceptance.

Oliver sensed her lover's aura of defeat, and his lack of vibrancy unnerved her.

* * *

 

The army had stopped for a momentary rest and a chance to fill canteens from a spring.

"Peter. Before we go into this fight, there is something that you should know."

He had been re-hitching his gear, which had settled into uncomfortable spots as they were jostled on the march. He grabbed his canteen, took a long swig, and only shook his head and grunted to signal that he was listening. She got very close to him so that only he could hear what she said.

"I think that I am with child."

His jaw fell like an elevator with cut cables; water dripped out the sides of his mouth, and he started to choke. The canteen that he had been draining dropped to the ground below, and spread liquid across the dirt in little streams and puddles.

"I'm not sure, but there are signs, and I just… have a feeling. I have for a few weeks now."

"How?"

"Hmf? Really?" She shook her head at him, but she knew what he really meant.

"Apparently your seed is fine, but the garden wasn't."

_I had a vasectomy. There's no way… Of course, I know the procedure isn't always 100 percent effective. And it would happen to me, when it absolutely CANNOT happen to me. Not now. Not here. Not ever._

"If that's the case, then you HAVE to leave. You can't stay in the army."

"It's a bit too late, now. We'll be engaged with the enemy shortly."

"Tell them you're a woman! Please! If you won't, I will!"

"Ssh! Peter, stop… I am not certain."

"So why did you tell me?"

"Because I want YOU to make it through this. I want YOU to survive. This will give you the motivation to stay alive, and to not do anything stupid… And I'm not leaving you until it can't be helped. If you get me drummed out, Peter… and I do have a baby… I'll make sure that you will never see it."

Few words have ever had such a soul-crushing effect on him. He almost forgot how to breathe.

"What? How could you do something like that to me? I don't deserve that… I've done nothing wrong, and just want to protect you. Was last month just a dream after all?! I'm sorry…" He backed away from her in disgust. "I need to get away from you, because I need to suppress the urge to slap you."

An annoyed sigh came from the iritated woman. "Yeah, you'd better. I've seen how you handle anger…"

_If looks could kill..._

"You know… It's me who doesn't know you at all. You're not her. You can be, but your soul has a lot of growing to do. I've deluded myself, and now it is going to cost me."

Peter spat on the ground by a very confused Oliver's feet. The drums played the first call - a warning that they'd be getting back to business soon - so he went to take his place in front of the ranks of his company. When the assembly sounded 10 minutes later, he did his duty to get the men back into line for the approval of the now, Captain Francis, and then he called roll.

"Straighten up there, Private Lewis. This is the army, not a nursery!" he hollered with a menacing glare, the last word added on purpose to sting, although it probably hurt him more to say it. The larger man physically pulled Oliver in place.

She met his look full-on with just as much intensity as he displayed. "Jeez, someone thinks he's the cock-of-the-walk because he has special stripes."

"What did you say, PRIVATE!? I'll show you cock, BOY!"

"Why, I do believe Sergeant, that you already have…"

Jackson was a few men down the line, and he just stared. _What is the matter with them?_

The other men murmured at this interesting outburst, as Peter and Oliver were the subjects of… rumors and speculation. Captain Francis was on his way to the line.

"Bah! I don't have time for this. No favoritism for you, my friend! Hush up! All of you! Or I'll have you detained by the guard… He looked directly at Oliver as he said this, as this threat was directed at her. "And we wouldn't want that on the eve of this upcoming circus, now would we?"

"You'll have plenty of chances to open your yaps later. Except you'll be praying, instead of gossiping! Now fall in! Attention! Company!"

"First Sergeant Bishop! Can you control your men?" Captain Francis was not at all amused.

Peter saluted. "It's fine, sir. It's under control. We're ready."

Francis nodded his head. "Good. I don't want there to be any reason to not put you in for a promotion. If you survive the next battle, you're likely to receive one," the man sighed, as this was an admission that he wasn't too sure about his own chances…

* * *

 

As they marched, his face was soaked with tears, and these mixed with the dirt of the road. His mind exploded thoughts like hundreds of bits of shrapnel.

He especially thought over some explicit instructions that Walter had given him, before he set out into the temporal unknown… It ate at him for miles. In truth, it had been eating at him for a long time, but he was able to shove it back into the recesses of his mind. He had ignored his father's important warning, all for his own sanity and temporary carnal pleasure. He could have stopped himself, but he figured he'd be safe.

Finally the advancing train of the army came to a stop. The soldiers rolled out their bedding for the night, and prepared the customary small cooking fires. Peter stayed far away from Oliver, and avoided the typical campfire activities that the pards shared. He went straight to his gum blanket and flopped down, in order to get away, which put Jackson in a bad spot. Peter's glare at him as he came over to find out what was going on, told the young soldier that he had better let it go until cooler heads prevailed.

Peter could not get it out of his head. Words spoken to him five years ago, according to his own accounting of chronological time…

* * *

 

_"So, son… Are you confident that you will not do all of these things to mess up the course of history?"_

_Walter had drawn a sprawling diagram on a glass board, so complicated and convoluted, that only one on his own plane of intellect could possibly make heads or tails of the scribbles._

_"Oh, it's really no big deal, Dad… Not at all. Don't step on a butterfly. I get it…"_

_Walter's face became quite dire and he spoke loud and purposeful to Peter. "Should it surprise me that you are still a sarcastic ass after all of these years, boy? If you want to cheat time, you do have to play by some rules. Heed my advice, Son. Or we all are done for."_

_"Yes, I understand, Walter. I'm sorry that I've been a bit irreverent… I want this to go well more than you could ever imagine."_

_Peter walked over to a lab table and started to work on some of the devices that he would be using for the mission._

_Walter stumbled his way over to his beloved son, and placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder. There were few grains of sand left in their hourglass, and he needed to savor these final days._

_"It's OK, Peter… I should be glad that you have any humor left in you at all…" Peter stopped his soldering for a moment, to look up at the man who had; nearly a half-century ago; risked everything for him. His smile gave the old man hope, and that was so desperately needed._

_"Oh! Something that just occurred to me! I don't think it will matter, given the loss of Olivia being your reason for doing this, but you should be aware of the matter anyway… If you are tempted to… copulate; you cannot, under any circumstances, father offspring. It will mess everything up. This cannot be stressed enough!"_

_Peter laughed. After all these years some things never change…_

_"Walter, even if I had the… remote interest… or even the slightest opportunity to… Anyway, I've had a vasectomy."_

_Walter snorted. "Life always finds a way… So absolutely do not gamble. Don't even give it a chance to happen. It's best to keep your gun—loaded or not—in its holster. Those who play roulette often end up surprised to find that one bullet in the chamber, and that's all it takes."_

* * *

 

Peter knew what he had to do, and this would be the thing that may ultimately break him for good.

_As much as it is going to destroy me from the inside out, I won't save her. If she is fated to die, then so be it. For once in my life, I must let go. God help me, I don't know if I can…_

Later, he felt someone very close to him. He opened his eyes and Oliver was there, still awake. She pleaded to him with very soft whispers.

"I'm sorry, Peter… So sorry for hurting you. Before you tell me to scram, I just wanted to tell you that… I'd never keep you from your child. I love you. But you can't destroy yourself. Please."

Peter only nodded that he accepted this, and she remained in place to sleep for the night beside him.

But his mind did not shut-off, as desperately tired as he was.

_I'm a scoundrel. She trusts me. Inaction is as good as a knife in the back. But no child of mine can live in this time-line. I should have been a monk…_

_This is what I get for not taking my own advice to stay away. Instead, I look for trouble, and it always bites me in the ass. But this time, my heart is going to be shredded, and I'll be effectively gutted. This has to be Hell. There is no other explanation…_

* * *

_Will I wake up?_

_Is it a dream I made up?_   
_No, I guess it's reality…_   
_What will change us?_   
_Or will we mess up?_   
_Our only chance to connect with a dream?_

_Say a prayer for me…_

_I'm buried by the sound…_

_In a world of human wreckage…_   
_I'm lost, and I'm found, and I can't touch the ground…_   
_I'm plowed into the sound…_

_To see wide open, with a head that's broken…_   
_Hang a life on a tragedy…_   
_Plow me under, the ground that covers…_

_The message that is the seed…_

**("Plowed" – Sponge)**


	13. The Bullet that Saved the World

As they heard the warm-up and introduction of the engagement's combat, and then its building crescendo to an intense escalation; he silently asked the universe's creator to have mercy on him when the time came… He was only a man trying to do the right thing.

Captain Francis shouted, "Halt! Front!"

The regiment's colonel was seen surveying the action… He then relayed his orders for the placement of his troops.

Peter relayed the order, "On the right by file into line! March!"

The company formed a battle line, two ranks deep facing the direction that the rebel advance was expected to be coming from.

"It's best we all dig in here, and put up whatever protection we can, fellas."

Canteen halves and the normally useless bayonnets were used to dig into the earth, and smaller trees were felled to construct crude walls. These offered little protection in truth, but the soldiers preferred to have some cover, no matter how little.

As First Sergeant, Peter crossed back and forth across the front of the first rank, and tried to offer encouragement to the men. Some of them were recruits who hadn't seen a battle. Many were very young and some were well past his age. The grizzled veteran felt for them, because this day, all of days, what not a good time to be a fresh fish.

Every so often he'd glance at his two pards. Each was concentrating on getting as much cover together as possible. When the shit ultimately hit the fan; he wanted to be beside them.

When it hit; it hit hard. The exchange between the two armies was like a cascade of bullets. Whole ranks of the Rebs were decimated by the entrenched Federals, but they kept on coming. One by one, the Federal soldiers were getting picked off.

The persistent enemy swarm was not giving up. The old soldier's rifle was burning hot, as it had been fired so many times. Ammunition ran low, so he picked up the cartridge boxes of the dead men around him.

They were getting closer.

_Why are we still here?_

_If we could maneuver down the slope some, we'd be able to hit the flanks..._

The men were almost to the breaking point. These were good men, but there's a time when it is perfectly fine to live to fight another day.

The Confederates stopped to fire a concentrated volley… and that's when he saw Oliver fall back, clutching her chest.

"No!" He got up off his belly, and bent down low to get to his friend.

Whizz! Thud! Peter was knocked off his feet and knew he was hit somewhere; but, he managed to scramble over to Oliver, who was as pale as a ghost. She tried to speak, but couldn't-his hand clutched into hers.

Jackson ran over to them, and tugged on Peter, "We have got to high-tail it out of here, like them cotton tails we liked to chase down for supper. The "dogs" are a comin'! They are overrunning us! I think you may be one of the last officers left!"

Peter yelled the order to retreat, scooped Oliver up his over shoulder, and stumbled along with Jackson. Thankfully, a new regiment had drawn up to take their place in line… they ran by the routed soldiers, and made calls about how they were yellow-bellied cowards. Something else bored bluntly into Peter's side, and he nearly buckled under.

Peter slunk down by a lone tree, in a sparsely wooded clearing, with Oliver in his arms, and panted hard. There just wasn't enough oxygen; it seemed, to fill his lungs.

He looked down at his friend, but she didn't breathe at all...

... and his world turned to black...

"Jackson… " He sobbed. "She's dead…"

Although this may have been a necessary outcome, he was not ready—at all.

He held Oliver in his arms and wailed, as he rubbed his face against hers, willing her to be alive. Crimson red seeped all over his body; hers mixing with his. He rubbed his hands over her torso, and wept. It was tortuous for him to have to wonder if there was indeed a child in her womb. _Why did she tell me if she wasn't sure? Does it matter?_

Jackson was horrified, but the instinct to help his living friend to survive was strong. "I'll help you get you to the back – try to get you behind the lines…"

Peter had lost all of his color... He threw his arms up in the air and waved around. "What lines? Look around. There aren't any… I'm a goner, anyway…

His concern for his own wound was inconsequential at first; he had no desire to keep struggling in this mortal coil. He realized from the location of the wound that he was in for a slow, agonizing death. There was a bloody hole in his right side—his bowels—and no exit path.

Peter lifted up his jacket to reveal the proof of his words.

"My intestines are torn. You know the surgeons can't fix that."

_So, it would be the dreaded gut shot that finally won how-is-Peter-going-to-die roulette. He would slowly bleed, and the toxins in his body would enter his blood, giving him feverish blood poisoning. His intestines would die. Septic shock would set in, and every organ would shut down. Miserably, his delirious nervous system would be aware of it all. He could hold on for days._

He suddenly became very dizzy.

"Do you still have that pistol?"

"No, it got confiscated during an inspection. Why?"

"Because… I wanted you to leave it with me…"

Jackson's eyes shut closed when it really sunk in that his friend would not go home with him at the end of this, after all.

"How about a jack knife?"

Without words, Jackson dug his knife out of his pants pocket and handed it to the doomed man. He grabbed Peter's hand and held it, with a final stare into his eyes.

As he left to make his way back to the fighting, he looked back at his friends for one last time. He straightened up to stand at attention, and offered a salute.

"Goodbye, Sergeant Bishop. It was an honor."

Peter returned the salute, and grimly flashed his teeth. "Don't worry. If all goes well, we'll see you in another life, friend."

Jackson's brows knitted together as he contemplated the statement for a moment, and then he took off, and dodged his way back to the front.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to recognize your face  
> Haunting, familiar, yet i can't seem to place it
> 
> Cannot find the candle of thought to light your name  
> Lifetimes are catching up with me
> 
> All these changes taking place, i wish i'd seen the place  
> But no one's ever taken me
> 
> Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...  
> Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away... 
> 
> I swear i recognize your breath  
> Memories like fingerprints are slowly raising  
> Me, you wouldn't recall, for i'm not my former  
> It's hard when, you're stuck upon the shelf  
> I changed by not changing at all, small town predicts my fate  
> Perhaps that's what no one wants to see
> 
> I just want to scream...hello...  
> My god it's been so long, never dreamed you'd return  
> But now here you are, and here i am
> 
> Hearts and thoughts they fade...away...  
> Hearts and thoughts they fade...away...  
> Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...  
> Hearts and thoughts they fade...
> 
> "Elderly Woman Behind The Counter in a Small Town" - Pearl Jam


	14. We Will Meet Again

At this point, the weary, dying soldier wished that he hadn't so wantonly destroyed the vial of poison that he once had. Through his tears, he watched as the remains of their ragged army clashed with a long, gray line in the tree line ahead, and his eyes grew wide as he swore that he saw an Observer watching the battle from a distance. He decided that he couldn't use the knife to end his own life. He had convinced himself by thinking 'what if suicide really was sort of mortal sin?' Even though he wasn't religious, there was no way he was going to risk his soul after all he had endured to get to this point. He almost hoped the rebels would push forward, so maybe one of them would possibly take pity on him and end his suffering.

But no… The Feds prevailed and soon he was left in the clearing, with many dead men. He could also hear some other poor fellows groaning - both blue and gray. Calls for mothers and sweethearts rang out in futility. Some may have been capable of being saved, but in the confusion of this insane maze of a battlefield, they were left behind to die.

As night fell, Peter's vision became too blurry to see more than a few feet in front of him. He could make out the outline of flames in the distance and smelled smoke—a lot of it. As he shivered from a fever that had set in from infection, he continued to chew on a piece of leather in a futile attempt to deal with the intense pain. Finally, he closed his eyes and relented to let death's embrace have him at last. _Not a bad run for a boy who should have died at age seven._

_"Hold my breath as I wish for death. Oh please God, help me…"_

_This is the death that I deserve—full awareness of it all._

Long-faded memories flashed boldly in his mind as his body shut down.

_A kiss in another universe and a proclamation: "You belong with me."_

_A toast and a simple, "I want what you want," followed by a night of forgiving and healing love._

_"I love you," as he entered the machine._

_"I do, now and forever."_

_A night in which a husband and wife held each other and sobbed after an unborn child was lost._

_"Olivia Dunham, my wife… was everything to me."_

Then he saw a woman, the most beautiful creature he had ever seen; her face, obstructed by brilliant light. She reached out her hand to him, and softly whispered, "Come with me, Peter. This is not the end for you. This is not the end for us." Olivia. After so long of not seeing her in his dreams, His Olivia, her soul released, had come for him.

He took her hand, and immediately all of his pain, all of his worry, all of his regret and sorrow - were washed away.

' _Did you hear me say_

_I'd wait for all the dark clouds bursting in a perfect sky_

_You promised me when you said goodbye_

_That you'd return when the storm was done_

_And now I'll wait for the light, I'll wait for the sun_

_Till I feel your… Rain.'_

Peter Bishop saw and felt no more in this lifetime.

* * *

 

A burial party came across two soldiers leaning together in death against a tree. The worn-out band had been detailed to work most of the day hefting bodies up onto a wagon and later tossing them into a large pit with their fallen comrades. No songs, no prayers, and no markers—lost to history, like many. In a day before dog tags, nearly forty percent of Civil War soldier's graves were marked, "Unknown." But these were the lucky ones. Some bodies would be left to rot where they fell—if the wild hogs did not get to them first. Many others were incinerated in the inferno that engulfed parts of this battlefield.

The older Sergeant was clutching a carte de vista photograph. One of the group looked thoughtfully at the three pards captured in time—the back of the paper photo marked:

PVT J. Lee - PVT O. Lewis - SGT P. Bishop

"The Toast and Bacon Mess"

"Amicitiae nostrae memoriam spero sempiternam fore"

The soldier stuffed it into his pocket. It could be used to confirm deaths for the official records, and for his own remembrance. It was the least he could do. Small tears slid down his rough cheeks; then he thought a bit more. His hands were broken open with calluses, and the sun had its way with his skin. But there was a matter he had to attend to.

"Stop. These two are my friends, and I am going to bury them where they fell, even if I have to do it myself." He tried his best to compose himself.

His fellows shrugged and left him to his task. Many had lost their brothers-in-arms over the years, so they understood the iron bonds of affection. No attempt was made to derail Jackson from making the final trip for his friends a little bit better.

He spent most of the day digging the two graves. He looked over Oliver with a tender reverence. The only two people who really knew her secret were here, and one was now dead. He had loved her, but foolishly didn't dare tell her when he knew she was a woman. He knew for a long time. She had taken a shine to Pete, a man more than twice her age, and as such, the older man was reluctant to return her advances. However, Jackson was aware of what transpired between them that fateful night about six-weeks ago, at a place called Kelly's Ford, while they were all on furlough. He had gone down to investigate the noises that he had heard, and came across the two of them happily engaged with their lovemaking. He was embarrassed, and a bit jealous, so he never mentioned a word of it to them. However, as they found out later, that wasn't what woke him up...

The grieving friend finally let salty tears fall. They slid down upon her bloody face; almost volume enough to wash the darkened, dried crimson away.

Jackson Lee said a prayer for his friends. For them, at least, this cruel war was over. Peter had a few effects that Lee decided to hold onto and send home, including a very curious wedding likeness of himself and a woman—his murdered wife? Who looked like she could be Oliver's older sister? The clothes didn't look like any he had seen before, and the picture was encased in a clear material unlike any he had ever touched.

Lee finally had a good look at the curious silver coin that the dead man had furiously guarded. It was stamped with the word LIBERTY, an odd statue, and a date that didn't make sense, as it was in the future. There was a simple wedding ring that he tried to slip onto the dead man's finger, but death had made his fingers too rigid and swollen to do so. Instead, he placed in on the chain of a cross necklace and wrapped it around his pard's hand. Jackson snapped open the man's pocket watch, only to see the face was cracked, and the hands stopped; little did he know the significance. At 6:02 A.M. on May 8, 1864, Sergeant Peter Bishop had reached the end of his extraordinary journey that had spanned eons.

* * *

 

_The "old nurse-maid" had saved his life once, when he and Oliver had dragged him away from the frontlines at Gettysburg, after Lee had caught a considerable piece of shrapnel, on the last day of the battle, during a huge Confederate artillery barrage. At great risk to himself, Peter had personally attended to what should have been a mortal wound to Jackson's chest. The young man was not quite sure how Peter had done so. He remembered the little tins of powder that the odd man carried, and how he had forced the injured man to consume the vile contents._

_He had begged pitifully and offered all of the money he had for a bed, and for linen bandages and dressings from townspeople who were foolish enough to remain. He, himself, had used surgical instruments that were bathed in alcohol, in order to remove the bits of metal from the wound, and he had packed and bound it well. Stinging alcohol was poured over Lee's wound every time the dressings were changed. Peter had mumbled some things about "bacteria" and "antibiotic," words that Jackson would not hear for a decade._

_After being AWOL for two weeks, Peter left his friend in the care of a Sanitary Commission hospital, only after speaking with a young mulatto nurse named Astoria Whitworth, who agreed to pay extra attention to Lee as he convalesced. The older soldier had put himself at risk for a desertion charge, all to save the life of his young friend. When their Captain heard the reports, Peter was sure he would be put on the most horrific work details imaginable. Instead, the rescue was declared an act of heroism. Oliver had made sure to relay the story of his mission of mercy while he was gone. The reluctant hero found himself with three sky-blue stripes on his shoulders, whether he liked it or not. There was great cause for celebration when Lee returned to the unit a month later, his recovery deemed miraculous._

_When Peter was asked about his methods, he partially told the truth: He had read papers from physicians from overseas concerning a practice of antiseptic procedures. However, he kept what he knew about penicillin to himself. That kind of knowledge would potentially alter world history if it got out._

* * *

 

Jackson Lee swore that he would honor and remember him.

He took their wool blankets and gum blankets, and wrapped each of them up as best as he could. Dirt shoveled in, his mission of honor complete, Lee gave the ground once last look, in a futile attempt to try and remember the place, then made his way back to what little remained of his regiment.

* * *

 

_Jackson Lee would survive, and would also bear witness to General Robert E. Lee's surrender at Appomattox; plus, he marched in the Army of the Republic grand review in the capitol at the end of the war. He then would go on to have a distinguished career as a professor of history, and a large family—including a firstborn son named Peter Oliver Lee. Some of his most treasured relics from the war were the oddities he had acquired when he buried the two members of his company. He knew that Peter Bishop also had a secret; he was not who he said he was, from where or when he said, and the coin was proof. But Professor Lee never showed anyone—they'd think him insane._

_A book called "The Time Machine" had really made him assess all of the things that had always bothered him about his odd pard, Peter. Lee had even once made the acquaintance of a German science professor named Peter Bischoff, who had similar facial features as that of his friend. If what he privately thought about who Peter really was, was true, then it was in the realm of possibility that this man was one of his ancestors. The thought made Lee's head spin._

Well into his advanced age, like many veterans, he set out to visit old battlefields. Many of the trees were cleared from the area. In the field where his friends had died, he would never be able to find their individual graves. Ironically, the mass grave that he helped fill had been exhumed, and the bodies reinterred in a cemetery. However, the final resting place of his friends was most likely never disturbed.

A sea of white tulips filled the landscape. A peaceful tranquility compared to the din that roared a lifetime ago.

* * *

 

**Boston, 2011**

Peter: "Olivia? Thank God you're here."

Olivia: "Who… are you?"

* * *

**October 2012**

"It was the strangest thing, Peter. When I had dreams about you, sometimes we were in the past. Like lifetimes ago. Some dreams in particular, stood out. We were both Civil War soldiers... and Lincoln Lee was with us."

"Liv, do you know what is even stranger? I have had those same dreams... Oh, I hear Etta crying. It's time for her bottle. Let me take care of it, hon..."

* * *

> I, too, have spent life the sage's way.
> 
> And tread once familiar paths.
> 
> Perchance, I've perished in an arrogant self-reliance an age ago, and in that act, a prayer for one more
> 
> chance went up so ernest, so—
> 
> Instinct with better light let in by death...that life was not blotted out so completely.
> 
> But scattered wrecks, enough of it to remain dim memories...
> 
> As now, when seems, once more.
> 
> The goal in sight again.

( _Paracelsus_ , by Robert Browning)

* * *

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that this story has been enjoyed by those who have been following along. Once I got to writing it again, it just flowed. I have some more ideas lined up, so if you could drop a review, a private message, or even a request, it would be quite encouraging.
> 
> This last chapter snagged a bit from a certain Metallica song ("One") that I adore. (Also, I am going to plug for a book that song was inspired by: "Johnny Got His Gun" by Dalton Trumbo. Read it, and you will never see war the same again...)
> 
> Oh, and some more of Madonna's "Rain."
> 
> Metallica and Madonna? Yeah... that's me. xD
> 
> "The Toast and Bacon Mess" is an added touch based on the tendency of soldiers to give names to the little groups that they formed among themselves (which were referred to as a "mess.") Fandom inside joke for this chosen name. ;)
> 
> I admire the works of the Roman statesman and philosopher, Cicero, so his sayings often end up in my work. The line, "Amicitiae nostrae memoriam spero sempiternam fore" translates roughly to: "I hope that the memory of our friendship will be everlasting."


End file.
